


Her Mother's Love

by inwardtransience



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretations, BAMF Lily Evans Potter, Beauxbatons, Dark Magic, Female Harry Potter, Horcruxes, I'm new to sex scenes be nice, Multi, Slytherin Harry Potter, So polyamory is a thing, Too Many OCs, White Magic, Worldbuilding, nonhuman!GWL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 140,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10076366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inwardtransience/pseuds/inwardtransience
Summary: Albus still didn't fully understand what magic young Lily had wrought that night. At the time, he'd only been grateful her noble sacrifice had earned them peace, however temporary. He should have looked into it deeper. He should have done something. Unknowingly, long dead, that arrogant girl might just have ruined everything.





	1. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel Potter gets a penpal.

Hazel Potter ran. She didn't know what she'd been thinking.

Dudley's gang had been doing what they usually did: teasing and beating on kids smaller than them. Hazel had been doing what she usually did: hiding somewhere unseen or inaccessible. This time, she'd been high up in a tree at the edge of the schoolyard, which had the advantage of being not out of bounds, so she wouldn't get in trouble with the teachers later, within sight, so Dudley's gang wouldn't feel the need to take their inability to find her out on her later, and somewhere they couldn't get to without risking her stomping on their hands as they climbed. She'd actually done that before, a previous day, to prove the point.

She'd been waiting out the lunch break, looking forward to the relative safety of the classroom. When she'd noticed Dudley's gang were starting in on a new target. It'd taken a second for Hazel to recognise her, a girl in their year; she knew her from the long blonde plait of hair. Honestly, she didn't even remember her name. She just knew she wasn't mean to her. Most of the other kids, they avoided her at best, or teased her (verbally, for the most part) at worst — Dudley had a habit of retaliating against people who were nice to her. She didn't blame them, no one wanted to get hit. This girl was one of the few who were nice anyway. She didn't go out of her way, so much, that would be risky. But she'd smiled at her a couple times. Once, a couple weeks ago, when she'd "forgotten" to bring her lunch, she'd given Hazel her apple. She was nice.

Before she'd even realised what she'd been doing, her feet had already been on the ground, a chunk of bark already winging across the air toward Dudley's head, the traces of mouldering wood on her hand telling herself, yes, she _had_ been the one to throw that.

Hazel was running, away from the girl, all the other kids, Dudley's gang pounding at her heels. She ducked around the corner of the building, darting through the little alley between class hall and cafeteria. She had maybe a couple seconds. She planted her foot on a low ledge in the wall, tried to push herself up, but her knees faltered. She stumbled back down to ground level, nearly running headfirst into the dumpster in front of her she'd been meaning to jump and climb over. It blocked the end of the little alley entirely, she would have been able to get away if she'd gotten over quick, but they'd catch up now.

And she was so _tired_ already. She had even been eating the last couple days — not a lot, sure, but when did she ever? She'd been eating enough that she wasn't constantly dizzy and weak like she sometimes got. But apparently not enough that she could run for more than a minute, not enough that she could climb just a _little bit_. She considered trying to climb up without the leaping start she'd planned on, but she knew it was pointless. Her breath was already coming hard and fast, her fingers were trembling so badly she didn't know if she could hold on. Dudley's gang would be here any second now. And she was trapped, out of sight of the teachers.

She felt like crying. She didn't let herself — crying was dangerous — but she felt like it. How could she be so _stupid?_ The girl would have been fine! The teachers wouldn't have let it go too far, and it would have been over in a couple minutes! But now Dudley and his idiot friends were going to hurt her again. And then Dudley would tell Uncle Vernon, who'd also probably hurt her again, and lock her in the cupboard, deny her food for who knew how long this time. No one was going to help her. Not that anyone ever did. And it was all her fault this time. Not that she was convinced it was ever anything but.

She needed to get out of here. She needed help. But then, nobody ever helped her, did they? When the Dursleys had abruptly gotten worse halfway through year one — they hadn't liked her getting better marks than Dudley — she'd tried to do something about it. She'd tried telling the teachers what was going on, but she'd been too scared to be too direct, and nothing had come of it. She'd told a couple kids, hoping they'd tell their parents who would then tell the right people, but they hadn't believed her, and soon stopped talking to her anyway. When they'd learned in school how the post worked, she'd even sent a letter to the police. She didn't know what had come of that, but considering Vernon had hurt her, then set _very_ strict rules about exactly what she was and wasn't to tell other people, it clearly hadn't done any good. Nobody ever helped her.

But she couldn't help begging in her head, pleading, praying. She needed help.

She jumped at the sound of approaching footsteps, her heart leaping into—

...

The world snapped back into focus, suddenly enough she fell to her hands and knees. She looked around, blinking to herself in confusion.

She was on the roof of the cafeteria.

How... How had she gotten up here? She didn't remember...

She just got more confused, looking at the roof just in front of her. It wasn't all the same solid black colour. Part of it was stained a deep, vibrant green. Colour shaped into what were clearly letters. She lifted her hands, revealing the whole word. _Tonight_.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the...message? What was happening? Had someone saved her? Plucked her out of the alley and put her up here? Told her they would...meet? Tonight?

She wasn't sure if she should be thrilled or terrified.

She blinked, and the message was gone.

* * *

She felt like crying, but she didn't let herself. Crying was dangerous.

Vernon had been told about the appearing-on-the-roof incident, and he hadn't been happy. But he'd gone rather light on her, actually. Sure, he'd dragged her into her cupboard pretty roughly — her arm burned from wrist to shoulder, extra stinging a little worse in a couple places. And she'd be locked in here, excluding when she had to go to school, for some weeks. And she'd likely not be eating for a couple days. But he hadn't really hit her at all. Could have been much worse.

But still she felt like crying. She always did, in the first hour or so after the cupboard door was slammed and locked. When her isolation was so fresh, the loneliness so much more acute.

She had no idea how long she lay in her bed, trying not to cry.

...

She blinked. She was sitting up, her back against the side wall, legs folded on her bed. Spread across her lap was one of her scraggy old notebooks, a mangled pen in her fingers. It was dark in her room, but not so dark she couldn't read.

 _Hello, Hazel. I'm sorry_.

Just that. It wasn't in her handwriting. It looked like a grown-up's, all smooth and regular, curved and loopy enough she had the impression it was a woman's. But...had she just written that? She couldn't write nearly that pretty.

She had absolutely no idea what was happening.

But, since she had nothing better to do, she decided to write back. Tongue slipping between her lips — it was really awkward writing legibly in this position, doing homework was impossible half the time — she wrote a response on the line under the mystery message. _Who are you? What are you sorry for?_

It was the strangest thing. The instant she pulled her hand away, everything flickered, for only an instant. Like the momentary darkness of a blink, but slightly...different. Like her whole body, her whole brain, all of it blinked, not just her eyes. When she focused again, words had appeared on the page under hers, again in that unfamiliar handwriting. _I'm sorry it took so long for me to wake up. Your mother sent me to protect you. But I was asleep until only about a month ago. I've only worked out how to help today._

Hazel frowned down at the page. Her mother had sent... Erm, she was going to think of whoever this was as a "she", since the handwriting was girly enough to be. Her mother had sent her? And what _was_ she? How was she writing to her like this? This was weird. Maybe she really shouldn't—

She suddenly got a very strange suspicion. Whoever-it-was said she'd only worked out how to help today. Today, when she'd somehow gone from the ground to the roof. A message saying "tonight" — and here she was, somehow communicating with...something. Had... The thought was so strange she could barely put it to words. Had someone saved her? Had someone actually done something to help her?

She had no idea what to think about that. But she might as well confirm if it was true or not first. _Did you put me on the roof?_

The world flickered again. _Yes. I healed your arm, too. I had to wait until I was sure your mean relatives were done for the night first. I'm sorry._

It was only at that instant Hazel realised her arm didn't hurt anymore. She couldn't stop it. It was just too much. No one had ever _helped_ her before. A light pressure rose from her chest into her throat, water gathered in her eyes. She wiped at her cheeks as tears slipped onto them, shaking her head to herself. Now wasn't the time. She had to figure out what was going on, but first she should be polite. She knew, for other people who weren't the Dursleys, politeness was important. She didn't want to make the only person to ever help her mad. _Thank you very much. I really really apreshiate it._

Flicker. When she came back, she felt...warm. Like she was wrapped up in a tight, comfortable blanket, holding her snug, settled right in front of a fire. Warm and soft. The feeling faded after a moment, the warmth and the slight pressure that carried it slowly lifting away. She looked down at the newest message. _You don't have to thank me, sweetheart. I have a lot to make up for. But it was very nice of you to say._

She hesitated for just a moment. She wasn't sure if what she wanted to ask was rude. If whoever-it-was would get mad. But she kind of had to know. Not _had_ to, she guessed, but she probably should. _Who are you?_

_The answer to that question is long and complicated. You'll understand soon, it'll just take a while to get there. There's a lot I have to tell you. If you need a break to get a snack or drink or use the toilet tell me._

Hazel frowned at that. She couldn't mean that, could she? _I can't get out of the cubberd._

_I can unlock it. Before you go to sleep tonight, we're going to go out at least once. We need to steal some money, to get you a real meal tomorrow._

A sudden thrill shot through Hazel, somewhere between ecstatic excitement and terror. On the one hand, she'd absolutely _love_ to be able to get in and out of her cupboard as she wanted. She'd _love_ to be able to get herself food and things without having to wait for her aunt and uncle to give the scraps they allowed. But on the other, she just knew she'd be punished horribly if they found her out and about, even _more_ horribly if they discovered she was stealing from them. But, honestly, she wasn't sure how things could get much worse. What did it matter? _That sounds good, if we're carefull._

_They won't notice a thing. Now, while we wait for them to get to sleep, I have a lot to tell you. I'll start with something that's very, very important. Very big. Maybe even the biggest part._

Hazel noticed she hadn't actually said the thing. Maybe she was waiting to make the point that it was so big, you couldn't look at it all at once? She didn't know. She also noticed they were at the bottom of the page, but she didn't think that had anything to do with it. Whoever-it-was had put the book in her hands and opened it in the first place, so she doubted that made any difference to her. All the same, she unfolded the notebook, turned the page, folded it down again.

Just as she was wondering if she should say anything, the world flickered, and words abruptly appeared. _Petunia lied to you. Your aunt lied to you so much it'd be quicker to list the things she didn't lie about than the things she did. Your mother really was named Lily. Your father really was named James. They really did die on Hallowe'en, 1981. As far as I can tell, someone really did leave you on their doorstep without even asking, but I have no way of checking to be sure. Nearly everything else they ever told you was a lie._

There was a little gap, a line skipped, and the words continued. _For one thing, your name isn't Hazel._ She blinked at that, so surprised she couldn't read on for a couple seconds. _Hazel is a middle name. Your name is Elizabeth Augusta Hazel Potter. Your aunt told you another very big lie about yourself. You are not a freak. You are special, but there's nothing unnatural about it. It's just the way some people are. You, Elizabeth Augusta Hazel Potter, are a mage. That means you can do magic._

_Yes, magic is real. She lied about that too. Magic is how I got you onto the roof. Magic is how I healed your arm. And magic is how I'm talking to you right now. With a little bit of time, and a little bit of work, you can do magic too. And with more time, and a lot more work, you can become good enough at it that no one will ever be able to hurt you ever again._

Hazel couldn't think. When she got to the end of the words, her head just went white. White and full of noisy static, like when you turn the telly to a channel that doesn't have anything on it. Her breath had turned fast and high again, but not because she'd been running too much. She just... She _really_... She wasn't sure if this magic stuff was real, honestly. Sure, magic things seemed to be happening but...it was still so hard to believe! It was a very strange idea. But...if it was...she wanted it very bad. If it could get her away from the Dursleys, if it could make it so she didn't have to be hungry or cold or hurt ever again, she wanted it very bad.

She forced her gasping into a single long, shaky breath, gripped the pen again. _Can you teach me?_

_Yes, I can, and I will. But later. First, we have to get you away from your aunt and uncle. I have a plan. If it goes the way I expect, after a couple weeks you'll never have to see them again. Then I'll teach you. It will have to be our secret, but I promise I'll teach you whatever you like._

She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. So instead she just wrote. _You can get me out?_

_Yes, I think so. We'll be sending some letters to your cousin. And then, at the right moment, we're going to arrange an incident._

She wasn't entirely sure what that meant. But she guessed it didn't really matter. Whoever-it-was would probably explain before too long — she expected she'd be up a long time tonight, her new magical pen pal explaining all kinds of things. _I have other cousins?_

_Yes. This is another thing your aunt and uncle lied to you about. Your parents were not unemployed drunks. Like you, they were also mages. They were very powerful, and knew many other powerful people. Your mother was born to non-magical parents, but she was very, very gifted. She was sort of like those kids you hear about that graduate from university when they should be barely out of primary, but with magic. She was also very smart, and very nice, and very pretty, so everybody liked her. So she has a lot of friends out there, who would try to help you if you asked. She also has distant cousins who are mages, but they live in France, and are too far away to help._

Again, the words continued in another paragraph. _But your father didn't have non-magical parents. His parents were mages. And their parents. And their parents. And theirs, and theirs, and theirs, back for hundreds of years. The Potters are a very old magical family, and a very important one, which we'll talk about later. You have living family through them, living family who liked your father far more than Petunia liked your mother. They'll want to help you just because of that. I think something must have happened to your godparents, so it's them we'll be going to._

And she felt like crying again. She'd _never_ heard anyone ever say anything nice about her parents. She guessed she still hadn't, but she'd read it, which was almost as good. Honestly, she really had no reason to think any of this was true. She'd been told the opposite so many times. But she _wanted_ it to be true. It would be so much nicer if it was true. _I have godparents?_ She only had the vaguest idea of what godparents were, she'd certainly never thought to think she had any.

_Yes, you do. Alice Longbottom and Sirius Black. Alice was your mother's best friend. Sirius is a cousin of your father's, but they were so close they were like brothers. Something must have happened to them, or you'd be with one of them instead of here. Or someone could have put you here without telling them. Which looks likely, since there are other people you should have gone to before here. But let's not worry about that right now. There's nothing we can do about it yet._

Hazel frowned at that. That didn't sound good. Anyone who sent her here could only be bad. Suddenly, the idea of magic wasn't quite so nice: she didn't like the thought of a magic Vernon. _Can't you use magic to find out what hapened?_

_Like anything else, magic has rules. I know magic very well, so I can bend those rules a little bit sometimes, but I can't break them. And on top of those rules, what I can do right now is very limited. I don't have a body of my own, you see. Right now I'm writing to you by borrowing your body for just a little bit. Since you can do magic, I can also borrow your magic at the same time. That's how I got you onto the roof, and healed your arm. I know a lot of magic, but since you're still little, I can't do big magic without hurting you. Just little things. I remember things that happened before that Hallowe'en, but nothing after, and from now on I only see what you see. I can't go somewhere else to try to find out what happened since. Well, maybe I could, but I don't want to leave you here alone now that I can help. Keeping you safe is more important than knowing what happened six years ago._

Okay. That was...sort of creepy. She didn't really like the idea of... _something_ stealing her body. It was just weird. But... Well, there wasn't anything she could do about it, was there? When it happened, she didn't even really notice it. And whoever-it-was had been nice so far. She didn't know if she could trust her. Whatever she was. She didn't even know if she was telling the truth about her mother sending her. But she _wanted_ to trust her, she liked the idea of her, and that'd have to be good enough for now. She considered simply asking what exactly she was, but she doubted she'd get an answer. Or, at least, she doubted she'd understand the answer. _Okay. What's the plan to get me out?_

_Your grandmother, your father's mother, was named Dorea Black. The Blacks are a mage family even older and more important than the Potters. Most of the Blacks are not very nice people, and I wouldn't know how to get a letter to most of the ones who are nice. Except one. Your father has an older cousin named Andromeda. She married a man who has non-mage parents, like your mother. Last I heard, he recently became a solicitor. He works on both the mage and non-mage sides. I remember the address of the non-mage firm he works for. We'll send letters to him there._

She thought of a problem after a second. _What if he doesn't work there any more?_

_They'll have his home address, or some other way to reach him. If he isn't there, they'll get it to him. There is a small chance they won't, but I have a second plan if that happens. That one just might be a little harder to get right. The first plan is better. You'll have to write the letter. It needs to be in your handwriting. I can give you advice, though._

That sounded like she was saying Hazel should write the letter right now. She could do that, she guessed. She turned to a new page, and with plenty of prompting from whoever-it-was, she wrote out a letter to someone she'd never met before. It was only the second letter she'd ever written anyway, and the other one was to people she'd never met either, but that wasn't the point, really. It was a simple thing. Whoever-it-was had her lie a little bit, saying she got the address from a box of her mother's old things in the attic. It was mostly just asking questions about what her parents were like, saying some basic things about her own life. She was told to downplay just how awful it was by quite a bit — which was just fine with her, she'd feel weird about telling the truth. Enough to make them concerned, the mysteriously-appearing messages said, but not enough to completely go crazy. Which was all they needed right now. She had her finish up the letter, then fold it up. Hazel went back to the notebook, wrote, _I'll need a thing to put it in. Forget what they're called._ Really, she couldn't remember how to spell it, but a little lie was better than messing it up so badly whoever-it-was ended up confused.

_Envelope. I'll pick one up at the same time I'm getting the money. It feels like they're all in bed now, but let's wait a couple more minutes to make sure they're asleep._

Alright. As long as they were still waiting, she could ask a question that'd been bothering her. She'd noticed it right away, and it hadn't really seemed that important at the time, but now it was gradually teasing at her more and more. Might as well ask. She was pretty sure whoever-it-was wouldn't mind questions. She was nice. _I have a question._

_Go ahead, Hazel. You can ask me anything you like._

She had to smile a little bit at that. Partially just because she was relieved whoever-it-was wasn't annoyed like Petunia always got, but still. _You said you know things up to that Hallowe'en. And that my parents died that same day._ She'd listed that as a true thing Petunia had told her about her parents, even though Hazel hadn't known that before. Which she wasn't pleased about; she'd actually liked Hallowe'en before, but now she suspected it wouldn't be as fun anymore. _I was just thinking that's funny. Why?_

There was a short pause before the world flickered out, words again appearing on the page. _It's very complicated, sweetheart. I don't think I could explain it in a way you would really understand. I'll try a little bit, though. See, your mother made me, on the night she died. A very bad mage was going to kill you. He was going to let her live, but instead she tricked him into killing her in just the right way so she could use the magic of her own life to give you very, very good magical armour. Think of it as a supercharged electrical fence around you, that bad magic can't get through._

_The armour can't work very well on its own, so she made me so I could take care of it, and watch over and protect you. It all worked as she planned, except for me waking up so late. I'm sorry about that, I don't know why it took so long. Since I needed to know all kinds of magic to make sure the armour was working right, and to make sure nothing bad happened to you, and also needed to know lots of other things to better keep you safe, she made me very smart, as smart as herself, and put all of her memories in me. I don't know if anyone else could have done it. Your mother was very, very clever. And she loved you very, very, very> much, too much to leave you without first giving you everything she could think of to keep you safe._

Hazel just stared at the page. She felt like crying again. Actually, she rather thought she _was_ crying. Her cheeks did seem to be strangely wet. Though, it almost felt like that part had happened during the flicker, when she hadn't been in control. She felt she was nearly crying now anyway, but it was almost like whoever-it-was had been too.

She read the part talking about her mother loving her very much a few extra times, just because.

This was very strange. That all almost sounded like her mother had...copied her entire brain into...whatever this thing was she'd given her. Which was... Well, then she might as well be...

She hesitated, her pen touching and lifting from the page a few times before she finally started writing. _Are you my mother?_

Another pause, a hesitation much like she'd had. Then, _What I'm about to tell you is as honest as I can possibly be. I said back at the beginning that explaining exactly what I am is long and complicated, and you'll come to understand later. What I didn't say is that I took some time, while working out this little trick I'm using to talk to you, trying to figure it out for myself. The magic that made me was something your mother made up, and she wasn't really sure what it would do. I've spent a month thinking about it off and on, but I haven't figured it out yet. It's very confusing being me._

_To answer your question, Hazel, I don't know. I remember being her. And sometimes I feel like I am her. But I honestly don't know. I don't know what I am. I've decided it doesn't really matter, at least for now. You need help. I can help. And I want to. So I'm going to._

_I'm sorry I can't give you the answer you want._

By the time she got to the last sentence, her eyes were so filled with tears, she could hardly even read the words. The words that she now knew must be in her mother's handwriting. She wasn't sad, not really. She felt light, and hot, and a little confused maybe, but not bad. Someone was here for her. For the first time ever. She couldn't see her, or touch her, but she was _here_. And she was basically her mother. Sort of. Had all of her memories. Was enough like her mother that she apparently wasn't entirely sure if she was really her mother or if she just sort of felt like it sometimes. So, Hazel wasn't the only one a little confused by the whole situation. That was nice, she guessed.

Without even thinking about it, she wrote, _I think "I don't know" is okay for now._ Because it was. This situation was very weird, maybe even completely insane. No "maybe" about that, really — if she told anyone about having her dead mother in her head they'd instantly think she was mad. But it was the closest she could ever remember to having a mother. To having someone who cared about her. So, honestly, it was good enough. It was better than good enough. It was amazing.

The world flickered out again. When it came back, there were no new words. Instead, that soft warmth had again fallen over her, this time lingering long after it'd faded previously. After a moment, Hazel realised what this was. She-who-was-her-mother-but-maybe-not-really had been killed, and didn't have a body of her own. But she could borrow Hazel's body, borrow her magic — which was apparently a thing she had.

She knew what this was. This was the closest thing her mother could give her to a hug.

This time, Hazel didn't even try to stop herself from crying.

* * *

Hazel was having the most peculiar day. But also possibly the best day ever.

She'd woken up in her cupboard to learn immediately she hadn't just been dreaming the previous night. Unlike most mornings, she'd woken up warm and comfortable, the magic — _magic!_ — done on her thin bed and pathetic blanket the previous night having done its job. The notebook, first few pages filled with two different handwriting styles alternating back and forth, had been right next to her pillow where she'd left it, the letter to Edward Tonks already sealed in an addressed envelope sitting on top. Reaching into her pillowcase, she'd immediately found the five twenty pound banknotes she'd hidden there the previous night.

She'd been absolutely shocked when maybe-her-mother-sort-of had gone on her thieving run, the world flickering out and back in for Hazel to find five paper Queen Elizabeths suddenly gazing up at her.

Remembering that her real first name was actually Elizabeth, she'd asked out of curiosity if she was named after the Queen. Turned out, her father had had an older sister named Elizabeth. She'd died about a year before Hazel had been born. Which was sad, she guessed, but still interesting to know.

Around midday, when Vernon had been off to work and Petunia and Dudley out who knew where, maybe-her-mother-sort-of had written it was time to go. Next thing Hazel had known, she'd been standing outside, about a block down the street from the house. She'd been completely unable to hold in her grin. She'd known already her-mother-maybe-kinda could get her out of the cupboard no problem — she'd even unlocked the door and left it hanging open for a little bit last night just to prove the point — but it was still just amazing to be out in the spring sun when she definitely shouldn't be able to. It was perfect.

Right now, she was sitting in a restaurant a few blocks away. At first, she'd been headed to a burger place Dudley often went to, but the-other-person-in-her-head-she-should-really-figure-out-a-way-to-refer-to somehow found out where she was going, and the world had flickered again and she'd found herself holding the notebook in front of her face, with a suggestion to go somewhere she could get something more substantial at. She'd just grinned, changed her mind to this other place a little further along that she'd seen but never been in — by the sound of the name, maybe Italian? She'd found the whole thing more funny than anything, really. She'd had her dead mother in her head for less than a day, and she was already nagging her.

She... Yes, she'd just refer to the other person in her head, who may or may not be her mother, as her mother, whether or not it was completely accurate. It was just easier, really.

And maybe she just liked thinking it a little bit.

But yes, the hostess and then the waitress had looked at her a little odd for being here on her own — or maybe that was her terrible ill-fitting clothes, honestly she didn't know — but they'd led her to a table and taken her order just fine. Okay, they'd confirmed she actually had money first, but they'd still done it. She was sitting at the table with her notebook open and sipping at a soda she'd half-expected her mother to prevent her from ordering by just taking her body over again, but here it was. She'd never had one before, and it was delicious, even if it had been making her a little cold — past tense, she suspected her mother had magicked the cold away during her turn writing — and this was so much fun, and she was practically bouncing in her seat with giddiness by this point.

Her mother had said that was probably the sugar. She was pretty sure it was just because this was clearly the best day ever.

The world flickered, which was far more obvious out here where she could see people suddenly jump from one spot to another as she blacked out for a few seconds, and she glanced down at the notebook to find her mother's handwriting again. _Before you get far too hyper or too stuffed with pasta to pay attention, I think I should explain the plan._

Right. The plan to get her away from the Dursleys. Her mother had had her drop the letter off to be mailed at a public postbox on the way — she said she'd make sure Petunia or Vernon didn't find any reply first — but she hadn't explained what they were actually doing. _Okay. What's the plan?_

_I'll be honest with you, I think someone put you with Petunia's family, even though he shouldn't have been able to. There's magic all over the house, and I think he put it there, but I can't check what it does without him maybe finding out what I'm trying, and I don't want to risk that without knowing exactly why he did what he did. So. I expect Andi and Ted will write back before too long. We're going to write back to them, and they to us, back and forth a couple times. You'll keep telling them enough of how bad it is for you that they'll worry. They'll tell the one who put you here they're worried, and he'll probably ignore them. If he does check on you and decide to get you out, that works fine, but I don't expect him to. He hasn't even noticed anything's wrong yet, so I'm not exactly pleased with him right now._

_After we got the Tonkses all good and worried, we'll sort of trick them into inviting themselves over to visit. I might have to fake a letter from Petunia to get that to work, we'll see. And then, when they're just about to arrive, we're going to make Petunia's whale of a husband angry. They'll walk in on Vernon being Vernon. I fully expect you'll sleep in their house that very night. And I doubt they'll ever let anyone send you back. They're good people. Your mother and father did want you to go to them if your godparents weren't available for a reason._

A cold rock sunk straight into Hazel's stomach. She didn't like this plan. In fact, she _hated_ this plan. She spent all her time trying to _avoid_ setting Vernon off, and here her mother wanted to do it on purpose! She took a long breath, trying to calm down. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Certainly her mother had to know what she was doing. _How angry?_

 _Very angry. I might borrow your magic again to make it worse_.

Okay. Yep. Bad plan. Very bad plan. She didn't like this. She didn't like this one bit.

She was just starting to lose control of her breathing when the world flickered again. When it came back, there was suddenly a plate of food in front of her — the absolutely largest plate of food she'd ever been offered in her entire life. She spent a long moment just staring at it, distracted from her earlier panic. Then she shook her head, looked for the notebook, knowing there'd be another message. There was.

_Don't worry, sweetheart, it's going to be fine. I promise you, from now on, I'll do absolutely everything I can to spare you whatever suffering I can prevent. And there may be a lot I can't do for you right now, but there are still things I can. I do plan to provoke Vernon. I hope to make him angrier than he's probably ever been with you. He'll almost certainly get very mean. However, I am going to be the one doing it. Me. There will be pain, but I'll be the one feeling it. Me. Andi is a Healer. Whatever he does to you, I promise you won't feel a thing, and by the time you wake up it'll be like it never happened._

_When the time comes, you'll close your eyes in that damn cupboard, and you'll wake up in the Tonkses' house, and it'll all be over. I'll take care of everything. Okay?_

Dammit. Stupid throat, stupid eyes. At least she didn't need to talk out loud to communicate at the moment, so her throat tightening up wasn't that big of a problem, but the tears blurring her vision were _really_ annoying. She wiped at her eyes with her left hand, trying to decide what to write. What could she possibly say? She had absolutely no idea how to express what she was feeling. Actually, she wasn't even entirely sure what she was feeling herself. Just... This was the best day ever. She was still somewhat scared of what exactly was going to happen with Uncle Vernon that day, but... It was still the best day ever.

Well. Might as well go simple. She started with, _Thank you,_ and then hesitated for the barest moment before adding, _Mum._ She tried not to wince. Not entirely sure saying that was a good idea. Last night, her mother (sort of?) had gone on that little rant about how she wasn't entirely sure who or what she was, she hadn't figured it out for herself yet. She could see how being a magically-created...thing...with no body or anything of her own, attached to the daughter of the person who'd made her, might be very, very confusing. She wasn't entirely sure it'd be taken well.

When the world didn't flicker for a long moment, she picked up her fork, started gathering up a bit of pasta. As one second after another passed without a response, Hazel seriously started worrying she'd made a mistake. She wouldn't leave, would she? _Could_ she? She really hoped her not-quite-mother wasn't angry with her. That would just be...bad.

She was temporarily distracted when she took her first bite. Oh god, real food tasted so good, she thought she might cry. Of course, she was already sort of almost crying anyway, but that wasn't the point.

Almost the instant she swallowed, the world finally flickered again. She gave the notebook a nervous look. Then she grinned, let out a relieved sigh that almost turned into a choked giggle at the end.

_You really don't need to be thanking me. I should really be the one thanking you. I honestly thought you'd be angry with me at first, even if just for a few minutes. I do have six years of horrible failure to make up for. I don't deserve it. But you're welcome, sweetheart._

Yes. It hadn't even been a whole day yet. But Hazel was starting to think that, even if she wasn't even a little bit like a normal one, she was going to really love having a mother.

* * *

She took control of Hazel's body with the slightest touch of effort. Which was interesting, considering how difficult it'd been at first, how long it'd taken her to figure out how to do it at all.

Possessing someone, as she knew this technically was, still felt slightly strange. Not as disorienting as it'd been at first, just a little tingly numbness, very much like the pins and needles of sleeping limbs. She wasn't sure if it was because this wasn't technically her body, or if it was just because she'd spent a while, well, not having one. (Or maybe she'd never had one. She wasn't honestly sure.) The first time, it'd been incredibly disorienting; she was honestly a bit surprised she'd managed not to splinch Hazel at all. Pulling out had gone rough enough Hazel had lost her balance and fallen. She'd been planning to be more gentle about it, maybe do a bit of light experimentation in Hazel's sleep, but, well. Hazel had been seconds away from being beaten. What was she supposed to have done, nothing?

She'd never been too great at doing nothing. Or, Lily hadn't, at least.

And that little identity problem was a whole can of worms she didn't feel like opening right now.

She swung herself around in Hazel's infuriating excuse for a bed, reached for the little girl's magic. If anything, this felt even stranger than controlling Hazel's body. Back when she'd had magic of her own, or at least in Lily's memories of when _she_ had, it hadn't felt _anything_ like this. She'd taught herself to control her magic consciously to achieve minor little tricks when she'd been even younger than Hazel, so she had a far greater idea of what magic felt like than most. Hazel's magic was hot, twisting and climbing like fire — much like Lily's had been, actually. But Lily's magic had also been dry and sharp like fire, while Hazel's very much wasn't. It had this sense of wetness, of slipperiness. Not in an unpleasant way, but almost enticingly soft and smooth, rather like silk touched with sweat, flower petals layered in dew. Honestly, it sort of reminded her of—

Well, something that was inappropriate to be thinking about while in her seven-year-old daughter's body, anyway.

She wasn't sure what that meant. Or even if it meant anything. It was considered common wisdom that a person's magic reflected their personality, that people sensitive to such things could divine quite a bit about a person by what they felt like. As a person who _was_ sensitive to such things, Lily had quickly determined the idea was total shite. For example, Sev came across to everyone as harsh and frigid, but to her touching his magic had always felt like sinking into a warm bath, calm and soothing. Unless he was angry, of course, but even then he felt more like fire and lightning than the unyielding ice most would probably expect. So, she had no idea if it was important or not. It was just strange. She wasn't sure if she'd ever felt this seductive slickness in a person's magic before.

Actually, she had met a few people with a vaguely similar feeling about them, but they weren't even human, so she wasn't sure if the impression were at all comparable.

But anyway, it was a simple matter to bend Hazel's liquid fire into a form that would check the time for her — adjusted from precise solar time to local reckoning with another slight tweak. Ten fifty-five in the morning. Perfect. Andi and Ted should be arriving at eleven. A couple quick tracking charms confirmed all three Dursleys were in the living room. Perfect. She gathered an unlocking charm in Hazel's hand, placed skin against wood.

It was time to go poke a dragon in the eye.

The door swung open, a runic spell she'd laid weeks ago turning her escape completely silent. She blinked Hazel's eyes a moment, waiting for them to adjust to the sudden increase in light, then pushed herself on up, padding into the hall. In a moment she was just outside the door to the living room, air vibrating ever so slightly with the noise from the television. She took in and out a long breath, going through her plan one more time. This was going to be interesting.

She stepped inside, started walking toward the television. Petunia was so absorbed in her book, Vernon his newspaper, and Dudley the programme that no one even noticed her approach. At least, not until the tendrils of smooth, oily magic she was intentionally leaking — should anyone check their memories of the event, they'd likely determine it accidental magic — started interfering with the electron guns in the television. The colours first distorted slightly, as though someone were fiddling with the tint knob on an older television, but soon the image started scrambling, the programme dissolving into rainbow static. The sound kept going as normal, though. Television was distributed by cable in this neighborhood, not wirelessly, and the magic she was releasing wasn't dense enough to interfere with the speakers directly. Dudley frowned for a moment in stupid confusion, then glanced up and around.

And saw her. Or, Hazel, actually. And, since this unfortunate child had been taught all his life that everything bad that happened was his freak cousin's fault, his blank face quickly contorted into anger. And, because he was lazy enough he would never lift a finger if he didn't have to, he immediately turned to his father. _'Daaaad_ , Hazel's doing something to the telly.'

Vernon glanced up, his tiny beady eyes set in his enormous pink face giving her a double-take. Because, of course, she wasn't supposed to be out here. His face quickly shading red, he said in a low, threatening growl, 'How did you get out of your cupboard?'

Of course, she wasn't actually afraid of him at all. She'd been threatened by people far more scary than Vernon Dursley — honestly, after facing people like Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Black, and Thomas bloody Gaunt himself, Vernon's absolute best effort struck her as more funny than even the slightest bit intimidating. But she had to pretend. She knew the Dursleys would likely have their memories examined, and she didn't trust her control of Hazel's magic well enough to take care of that. She didn't fake a full terror though. She faked the wavering posture of someone who was _trying_ to be brave, but wasn't doing a very good job of it. Thought she was doing okay. 'I found out how to make it work. Make it go on purpose.'

Oh, yes, his face was going quite red. 'Make _what_ work?' The threat was very clear on his voice, though with a fair amount of confusion as well; by how Petunia was rapidly paling, though, she was sure the bitch knew exactly what she was talking about.

'This.' She closed Hazel's eyes for a moment, pulling a face of intense concentration — concentration she didn't actually need to do this, but she _was_ putting on a performance here. A flex of effort, and she opened her eyes again to find a thin layer of orange-red flame flickering in a tight sheath over the skin of Hazel's right hand.

She definitely had the Dursleys' attention now. The boy had let out a terrified squeal, Vernon's face shifted past red and straight into purple, Petunia had gone so pale her lips were turning blue. Good.

'Things are going to change around here.' She let the magic fade out, the fire instead switching over to her voice, the simulated fear and weakness gradually replaced with rising anger. Which was only partially faked, honestly. 'You're not going to lock me in the cupboard anymore. If you try, I'll just get myself out anyway. You're going to let me have one of the extra bedrooms, with a real bed. You're going to give me real food, you're going to give me real clothes. I'll still do the chores; it'll be easy with my light to help. And you're not going to hurt me again. If you try, you'll be sorry.'

Yep, Vernon was still purple, fists clenching around his newspaper. Good. She'd thought it possible, however unlikely, that if she scared him with a little magic, he'd actually treat Hazel marginally better. Not better _enough_ , but better to a degree it'd be harder to get her permanently out of here. So, instead she had to push his buttons. With a person like Vernon, and she used the word "person" very loosely, that was really quite easy: she simply had to have the _useless, disgusting, unnatural freak_ dictate terms to him. Appeal to his anger, rather than his fear.

Though, come to think of it, she really had to wonder what the Dursleys had been hoping to achieve by treating Hazel as they'd been. Surely, they had to realise abusing a child they _knew_ would eventually develop the ability to alter reality at a whim was a very, very bad idea. Honestly, if it had been Lily in Hazel's place, she wasn't sure if the Dursleys would have survived long enough to see her leave for Hogwarts.

And then Vernon was on his feet. _Wow_ , Hazel was tiny, still getting used to that. And he was yelling at her. Something about telling him what to do in his own house, blah blah, she wasn't really paying attention. She kept herself standing straight and tall, until Vernon suddenly stepped inward, hand reaching for her arm. She let a flare of panic flash across her face, backing away with a sharp snap of magic — it had to _look_ mostly accidental, but the wide-angle stinging jinx she laid into Vernon's hand and arm was anything but. And also far less than he deserved. But it was probably all she could get away with.

Maybe she could come back and torture the slug when Hazel's magical ability had developed some. The idea had merit.

And that _really_ set Vernon off. With a bellowing roar of fury, his fist started flying. She could have stopped it. Easily. Even with Hazel's magic as immature as it was, she could turn Vernon to ash with a thought. And, with just how much she'd come to hate him since waking up about a month and a half ago, she had trouble stopping herself. But she did nothing.

Instead, she let her brother-in-law beat on her daughter's body, screaming and crying in her daughter's voice, begging him to stop, promising she would be a good girl from now on. It did rather hurt, but not that much — she'd taken much worse than this in duels before. She was merely giving the most dramatic performance she possibly could without seeming too fake.

Because this was a performance.

Vernon only managed to hit her five times before the front door was blasted in with what felt like a bludgeoning hex, and their audience had arrived. Seconds later, a flash of red light flashed crossed her vision, the sensation of a stunner passing nearby washing across her skin. And the air was filled with Petunia's high panicky screeching, and the level slashing bite of an angry Andromeda. She couldn't see what was going on, and she couldn't hear very well — one of those hits had been a rather hard smack to the side of Hazel's head, and she was annoyingly dizzy — but she still had to hold back a smile.

End scene.


	2. The Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ted and Andi Tonks win at everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I meant to post this a week ago. Sorry about that._
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> _Yes, this is me coming back. I do plan to post weekly until it's finished, which should only take a few months. I'm intentionally pacing this fic much, much faster — I expect we're looking at, I dunno, 120-200k. Once this is done, I'll be moving immediately to one of my other projects. Maybe Complications, maybe Crash Course, maybe a Star Wars fic I've been playing with for a while, we'll see when we get there. Hopefully, the quicker pacing and shorter fics, only taking a few months for each project, will prevent me from burning out on any of them. We'll see._
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> _Lastly, I did just open[a forum on FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/forum/Updates-Questions-Comments/208720/) (which you would need an FFN account to use, obviously). Mostly, I'll be using it to give notice about any delays that might come up — a handful of people PMed me every time a chapter was a couple days late, it takes a surprising amount of time to respond to all of them. Also, any of my responses to reviews I think will address issues other people are likely to have will be posted there. I left the thing open for anyone to open new topics, if people feel like asking me things, though I will exercise my abilities to kill anything that's unhelpful or whatever._
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> _Don't think I'm getting all big-headed or anything — I don't expect there to be any real activity on the thing, I just thought it might be convenient to have at some point in the future. Honestly, more about saving me time and effort in the long run than anything._
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> _Anyway. Yes, I'm back. We'll see how long it lasts this time. Let's get going then, shall we?_

When Hazel woke up, everything was soft and warm. The feeling immediately made her think of one of her mother's magic hugs, a smile stretching across her face at the thought.

It still felt sort of weird, to smile, but it was getting easier.

And then something happened to run a spike of cold terror into her semi-familiar comfort: a strange voice from nearby saying her name. Hazel snapped up to sitting, sliding away to put her back to the headboard, and looked around for—

She froze, temporarily distracted by the room itself. This might be the most colourful place she had ever been in. It was rather absurd, actually. Bright wallpaper covered in posters, dozens of books on shelves painted swirling shapes, even the sheets and blankets of the bed she was sitting in, all of it a rainbow of twisting, clashing colour. It was almost hard to make anything out.

She stopped even trying to pick out her surroundings, entirely distracted, when she noticed some of the posters were  _moving_. What the...

'Hazel?' She jumped at the voice, jerking away from the source, turning to find a woman sitting at the edge of the bed. Hazel's first thought was that she was very pretty. She had deep black hair, pure as the black between stars, her face all sharp lines and dramatic curves, but not really in a bad way, her eyes dark but at the same time bright, almost seeming to sparkle from inside somehow. She was pulled a bit back, not leaning too close, hands kept away from the bed, raised up almost in surrender, her face open and cautious.

It only took a couple seconds for Hazel to figure out who this had to be. She tried to force herself to relax, but didn't manage very much, still feeling all too tight and tense. 'You're Andi?'

A warm smile crossed the woman's face, the sparkles in her eyes going brighter. 'Yes, Hazel. Do you remember what happened?'

Hazel frowned, pretending like she had to think about it. Of course, she couldn't remember at all — it had been her mother in control when Andi and her husband would have come, she hadn't been there. But Andi wasn't supposed to know that. 'Er, you were going to come, I know. I was waiting in my cupboard and...' She trailed off, trying to look confused. 'I don't know, I can't remember.'

The lie sounded terribly obvious to Hazel, but Andi didn't look suspicious. If anything, she just looked concerned, slightly confused. Mum had said saying she didn't remember would be fine, but she hadn't explained why. Something about what she'd provoke Vernon into doing to her, Hazel assumed. 'Well,' Andi finally said, sounding a bit sad. 'It's probably better you don't remember.'

She was somewhat disappointed when Andi stopped there, eyes going unfocused, staring at nothing. If only because Hazel had no idea how to fill the silence. She played at the sheets with the fingers for a few moments, looking around the room. 'Where are we?'

'My home. This is my daughter's room — don't worry about taking her bed or anything, she's off at Hogwarts right now.' Right, Hazel vaguely remembered Mum mentioning Hogwarts was a boarding school. 'Can I ask you something?'

Hazel frowned for a second, staring at the woman. All of a sudden, she was looking and sounding very...hesitant? Almost scared. Weird. 'What?'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Er, about what?'

'The cupboard.'

Oh. Well. Luckily, Mum had already told her what to say if this question came up. She hadn't expected it to come up so soon, but she was prepared, at least. 'I just... I didn't want you to be  _too_  worried.'

'Too worried?' Andi repeated, frowning, obviously confused.

Hazel fidgeted, toes and fingers fisting in the sheets and letting them go again. She didn't want to talk about this. It was all...icky. She would have to learn better words eventually, that didn't really work, but she didn't have a better one for the tight, sticky feeling in her chest, it was all she could think of. 'If you were too worried you would... I don't know, call the cops or something? And the cops don't help.'

'They...' Andi closed her eyes, took in a long, deep breath. Through her nose, not her mouth, her chest slowly rising as she pulled in and in and in. Then she let it out in a sigh, her eyes opening to stare at Hazel. She wasn't sure she liked the look. She wasn't sure what the look was, it just made Hazel feel... She didn't know. Pinned? It wasn't nice. 'That's why you really wrote us, isn't it? You were hoping we would help.'

Hazel had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. So she just sat there, and tried not to look too guilty. Andi staring at her all heavy and sharp wasn't making that easy.

After a few moments of staring, Andi sighed again. She didn't seem annoyed, didn't seem suspicious. Instead, she just looked sad, and tired. Hazel wondered if she should feel guilty about that. She didn't, but she honestly didn't know if she should or not. It was her fault, but... She jerked out of her thoughts again when Andi started talking. 'Well, never mind all that. If you like, I'm sure some of Dora's clothes should fit you. Ted will have dinner ready in a few minutes. That's why I woke you up, I thought you might be hungry.'

Really, she never stopped being hungry. Especially recently, after she'd started actually getting food more often. It was weird, before she could barely eat for days and not even notice that much, but after a couple weeks of being snuck food she did. So, she could probably eat, then.

Wait, Dora was her daughter, right? Wasn't she, like, thirteen or fourteen or something? Her clothes  _really_  shouldn't fit Hazel, not unless they were really old...

It turned out Hazel's immediate assumption was completely wrong. When Hazel said that sounded fine — she doubted whatever Andi was going to be finding for her would be worse than the old tee shirt she was wearing in place of a dress at the moment — Andi went to the closet, started shifting around at one end. After a bit of picking about she set some fuzzy-looking trouser-like things, a thin sleeveless thing, and an even fuzzier jumper on the bed. Just by looking, Hazel was pretty sure they would fit her. Probably better than any clothes she'd ever had, actually. But... But she was so much younger!

She was confused enough to ask, and Andi explained what a metamorph was. By the end Hazel thought she might be a little jealous. That sounded really neat.

Anyway, a few minutes later, Andi was gone, the door closing behind her — it had taken a bit to convince her to leave, she could change by herself, jeez. She didn't move immediately for the new (to her) clothes, or look more closely at the strange and (literally) magical room around her. Instead, her heart suddenly high in her throat, hardly more than a whisper, she said, 'Mum?' She waited, hardly a second.

And the world flickered.

When she came back, she was again wrapped in a soft, tight warmth, seemingly not from anything, just clinging to her, invisible and intangible.

And Hazel smiled.

* * *

Hazel wouldn't say living with the Tonkses was  _bad_ , exactly. But it was a little confusing.

She woke up every morning in her own bed, in her own room. Well, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't  _her_  bed, not  _her_  room. She was staying in her cousin Dora's room, since Dora was off at school right now, and wasn't using it anyway. The Tonkses had already started converting another room in the house, which had been an office, into a new bedroom for her, but they weren't even close to done cleaning the place out yet. Andi said it would be done before the summer, when Dora would be coming back, which Hazel would believe when she saw it.

It was a weird thought, having her own room. A real room, that is.

But anyway, the point was, real bed, real room. There was a lock on the door, but it was on the  _inside_ , she couldn't be locked in. There was no stomping of heavy steps on the ceiling — there weren't stairs above her head, there wasn't even another floor, just an attic no one ever went in hardly. She didn't get woken up in the morning with shrieking and pounding. Actually, she didn't get woken up in the morning at all. Andi or Ted would come by to tell her breakfast was ready, checking if she was up, but she was always awake by then.

Because one of them would always make breakfast. Which one ended up cooking depended on which had to be at work earlier, but they always did it. And dinner, whichever was home earlier. She hadn't been told to cook at all. Actually, when she'd asked if she wasn't supposed to be doing something, Ted had just given her a very strange look, exchanged a dark glance with Andi. It was weird.

They didn't really expect her to do much of anything, as a matter of fact. It was weird. Not make too much of a mess of herself or Dora's clothes or things she was using — and what they thought of as "too much of a mess" was clearly far more messy than Petunia would accept. After a lengthy conversation with Andi, she'd been given some school books Hazel was pretty sure were magic, and told to go through so many pages each day. When she got home, Andi would check she'd done them quick, then talk through them over a half hour or so, to make sure Hazel had actually learned what she was expected to for the day, and that was that. And actually doing the work never took more than two or three hours, she was always done before lunch.

Lunch she still fixed for herself, but only herself — Andi and Ted were almost always out of the house during the day. Andi was a doctor at a magic hospital, Hazel had learned, and Ted was a lawyer, so they were rather busy. They'd apologised for that at first, that they wouldn't be around much, which Hazel had mostly found confusing. Andi had even offered to find someone to look after her, which had just been even more confusing.

It was weird. It wasn't that they were worried she couldn't take care of herself, though there was a little concern there, she thought, but more that... She didn't know. Like they thought she wouldn't be okay by herself. For feelings reasons. It was just...confusing.

And she was left alone so much, and was only rarely given any chores to take care of, she mostly had nothing to do. Once, she'd gone a lot further through her school stuff than she was supposed to that day, but she'd only done it once. Andi had had to spend a lot longer on their review thing in the evening, and she'd seemed really tired, so Hazel decided that was a bad idea. Sometimes she'd pull one of the Tonkses's books from somewhere, but she couldn't understand them more often than not. And the ones she could were mostly just because of her mother's help.

She was getting magic lessons, though. But even those were kind of boring. Mum had said she had to learn how to touch her magic, which mostly seemed to involve sitting in one place without moving and without thinking and without feeling and just...waiting. It hadn't taken very long for Hazel to decide she was very bad at not thinking and not feeling. Mum had admitted wandless magic was much easier to discover on accident than learn on purpose — strong emotions tended to make magic come out. So, she might get angry or sad or scared or something, and jump past the slow way all at once. But until that happened, this meditation thing was all she could do.

She didn't want to say it was boring, because it was  _magic_ , and it was  _her mother_  teaching it to her, but she couldn't really help thinking it. And since she was pretty sure Mum could see her thinking, there wasn't much point in not saying it, but it just seemed kind of rude...

Anyway, it was weird. She didn't really know what to do with herself most of the time. Or how to deal with the Tonkses, really.

Not that they were bad, but that was almost worse! If Andi were like Petunia, if Ted were like Vernon, she'd know what to do. She knew how to not get yelled at, she knew how to not get hurt. Well, mostly, sometimes she couldn't help it. But, when they were being all nice, it... She didn't know what to do with that. It was just uncomfortable, really. She tried to spend as little time around them as possible, even when they were home, because she didn't know what she was doing, and it was awkward.

Mum said they were probably worried the Dursleys had messed her up a bit. In the head, like. But that it was okay that they thought that, because they probably had. Mum said it was okay that she was a bit messed up, that it wasn't her fault and it was okay, but people would probably think she was a bit odd for a long time. That was why Andi and Ted were so nice and cautious with her, because she came off a bit odd, and they weren't sure what she would react badly to. Like a bomb, that might explode if it's hit too hard.

Hazel had almost questioned the choice of words, but then she remembered she was magic. She probably could explode things, who knows.

It was weird, this whole not living with the Dursleys thing. And it was all very confusing sometimes. But, well, it wasn't like she was looking to go back in the cupboard.

And nothing made that more clear than when someone came by who wanted to put her back.

It happened on a perfectly ordinary day. And by ordinary, Hazel meant somewhere between boring and uncomfortable. She was sitting at the dinner table with one of her books, mostly ignoring Andi and Ted in the kitchen. It was a weekend, and by some miracle they were both home for lunch. Not that she was expected to actually make lunch, which still felt slightly strange — Ted was in there cooking right now, Andi talking to him about something or other. She'd offered help any number of times, but Ted always gently and Andi always firmly told her that wasn't necessary, just go back to whatever she'd been doing. Which, okay. Boring, but okay.

Anyway, she was mostly ignoring that when she suddenly learned that mages had doorbells. It wasn't really an ordinary doorbell, sounding somehow both too quiet and too loud all at once — too quiet because it was at a nice, perfectly comfortable volume, but too loud because she was a couple rooms away from the front door. And it was too clear and too...bouncy. Hard to explain. But that had to be what it was, because the conversation in the next room hitched to a stop, and then Andi was walking through toward the door. Weird.

She thought it was even more weird when Andi came back through the room again, bringing Ted with her, and told Hazel they had a guest who wanted to talk to her.

She thought it was even  _more_  weird when she walked into the sitting room, and found the oddest-looking man she had  _ever_  seen on the cushy old sofa. Like, seriously, he was strange. He might possibly be the oldest person in the world, his skin so wrinkly it didn't seem to have non-wrinkly parts anymore, snow-white beard so long it bunched up a bit in his lap sitting down. And he was wearing the stupidest clothes ever. Not joking. Hazel still thought the robes mages wore were a little silly, but she was pretty sure even mages would blink at someone wearing sky-blue with random spots a blindingly bright orange. Seriously, was he colourblind?

And the twinkly-eyed smile he was giving her was reminding her of a very particular Santa from a couple years ago. She didn't like it. Twinkly-eyes always weirded her out.

'Ah, Hazel, my girl.' Yeah, that wasn't making her any less weirded out. His smile was far too warm and gentle and  _familiar_ , and it was making her really uncomfortable. She didn't know this man — acting like she  _should_  was just making her suspicious. Not to mention the "my girl" thing was weird. But not the point. 'I was hoping I could speak with you in private.'

She caught what was obviously supposed to be telling Andi and Ted to leave her alone with...whoever this bloke was. She turned to where they were standing and stared up at Andi. Luckily, it looked like she wouldn't have to say something possibly awkward. 'And what  _exactly_  do you need to talk to her about, Dumbledore?' Her stare at the old man, who was apparently named...she didn't think she'd caught it. Mumbledoor? Whatever, she didn't let up on her staring, moving to sit in the other sofa without even looking. When she was sat down, she glanced to Hazel long enough to nod at the other cushion, then turned back.

That was good enough for her. Aunt Petunia had said to not talk to strangers, especially creepy strangers, without a trusted adult around. Well, she'd said that to  _Dudley_ , anyway, but she'd always assumed what they told Dudley was the real advice, and the few times they bothered telling her anything like that, which was almost never, probably wasn't trustworthy.

While she sat down, Ted taking the armchair to her other side, Hazel absently scratched at the back of her head. She'd noticed she got this weird tingling sometimes, she was pretty sure when Mum was especially annoyed about something, and this was starting to get  _very_  tingly. She couldn't exactly ask what it was right now, should probably ignore it best she could.

Numblebore didn't look very happy about that, his bushy eyebrows drooping into a faint frown, the warm smile fading a little. Apparently he'd wanted them to be alone, which was also creepy, and Hazel would really rather be back with her boring book now, please. 'Well, Hazel...' His eyes flicked to Andi next to her, just for a second. 'I was hoping you could tell me how you came to be here.'

Hazel felt herself frowning. It was an innocent enough question, she guessed — Mum had said someone from the Ministry would probably be by to ask her a couple questions at some point, she'd been told what to say. But this creepy old man wasn't from the Ministry. Mum had said Hazel would know the person from the Ministry because they would  _say_  they were from the Ministry. This man hadn't said anything. And yes, the question itself was innocent enough, but he'd asked it...weird. She wasn't sure how, just weird.

And that tingling at the back of her head was getting worse.

In the end, she glanced at both Tonkses quick, before just shrugging the weirdness off. 'Er, I don't know. I mean, how I got from there to here. Magic, I'm guessing.' Because magic was neat like that. 'But, er, I found some of my mum's old stuff, and it talked about Ted and Andi, so then I was writing them, and then they came over and...' She shrugged. 'I don't remember what happened. I woke up here.'

His bushy brows falling lower over his eyes, Fumblemore said, 'You don't remember? They came, you fell asleep, and woke up here?'

'I don't remember them coming. I was in my cupboard, and then I was here.'

Before the old man could say anything, Andi cut in, her voice sounding at once casual, but also hard and harsh. 'That would be the concussion, I expect.'

Grumblebore blinked. 'Concussion?'

'Yes, concussion. I'm sure you're familiar with the concept. Patients suffering from head trauma often experience memory loss affecting the few minutes to either side of the precipitating event. It's practically expected when dealing with these sorts of injuries.'

'I'm afraid I don't understand. How exactly did Hazel get this concussion?'

'I can't be certain, as we didn't walk in until some seconds afterward. My professional opinion, however, is that it had something to do with Vernon Dursley beating her. Just a guess, though.'

That paused Stumblecore for a bit. A few seconds passed, the old man just blinking stupidly against Andi's glare. It wasn't a bad glare, either, Hazel wasn't surprised he couldn't find his words facing it. 'And you witnessed this yourself.'

Hazel flinched, hand jumping halfway toward the back of her head before she managed to force it back down into her lap. That weird tingling had spiked so hard it'd actually hurt. She had no idea exactly what was going on with Mum, but if she had to guess, she  _really_  didn't like this creepy old man.

But anyway, Andi was talking, only sparing her weird little twitch a short glance. 'I didn't witness the blow to the head specifically. When Ted and I arrived, we heard the screaming, so we broke in. As soon as I recognised Hazel curled up on the floor, and Dursley's stance as  _winding up for a kick_ —' Andi paused for just an instant, her voice lowering back to normal. '—I thought it best to simply stun him. After a short conversation with the Dursley woman, a quick check of  _the cupboard_  Hazel so innocently referenced a moment ago, I took the initiative and got her out of there. I'll admit, intervening in that sort of situation is not at all something I have been trained in. Should I have handled it differently?'

Fumblemore didn't respond for long moments, just stared at Andi, his wrinkly face looking somehow longer and wrinklier than it had before, almost too pale, like the colour was being gradually sucked out of him. Well, except for the occasional blue line squiggled under his skin, anyway, those were still there. And even when he did respond, it wasn't to answer her question. 'The... The cupboard?'

'Yes. The cupboard.' Andi turned a little toward Hazel. While her voice softened somewhat talking to her, Hazel noticed her eyes had gone all black and hard, almost scary even. And only  _almost_  because she knew the frigid anger was for the strange old man, not her. 'Hazel, why don't you tell Mister Dumbledore about the cupboard?'

Well,  _why_  she at least didn't want to talk about the cupboard was because she'd always—  _Oh_ , oh, it was  _Dumbledore_. Okay, she got it this time. Weird name.

Anyway, she guessed she could do that. She'd been told she couldn't count how many times to  _not_  talk about the cupboard, or pretty much anything that went on, but, well, it wasn't like Uncle Vernon could hurt her here. What he'd told her didn't matter anymore. 'Er. It's this cupboard, see. It's right off the entryway, under the stairs.'

'And?' Andi said, her voice soft but insistent.

Hazel shrugged. She stared down at the carpet, picking randomly at the cloth of the sofa as she spoke. 'That's where I stayed. I had a bed in there, and a couple of shelves with my things.'

'Out of curiosity, did the Dursleys have any unused bedrooms?'

'Oh, yeah, two. Dudley kept some of his things in one of them, but two, yeah.'

'They had two unused bedrooms, but they had you sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs?'

Hazel nodded, giving the poor innocent carpet a frown it didn't deserve. She had said that already, yes.

'There was blood on the sheets when I looked in. Do you know where that came from, Hazel?'

'Me?'

'Yes, but why was it there?'

She shrugged again. That could be a few things. There had been times she'd cut herself cooking or gardening or something. Never that bad, but enough she might get little stains on the sheets, she guessed. She was almost never punished bad enough to bleed from it, but sometimes she'd end up getting a knee or elbow badly scraped from Dudley and his friends shoving her around, it'd happened.

There couldn't have been that much blood on her sheets, really. It just  _looked_  like a lot, because they were a pale colour, and Aunt Petunia never replaced them. All those little splotches were from dribbles here and there over years. She could tell Andi was trying to imply the Dursleys had been hurting her badly enough she was bleeding all over her sheets all the time, but that really shouldn't count.

She rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to get the burning tingles to go away.

Andi apparently realised she wasn't getting an answer to that, just moved on. 'I noticed there was a lock on the door. On the  _outside_.'

Hazel shrugged.

'Did they ever lock you in the cupboard, Hazel?'

She really wasn't supposed to talk about this. But it didn't matter anymore, this was apparently the Ministry thing, which was weird, because he hadn't said he was from the Ministry, but not the point. It was still  _really_  uncomfortable, though, so she just nodded.

'How often?'

She shrugged. 'Every day.'

All of Andi's previous questions had come almost right away, but this time she hesitated. Hazel risked a glance up toward Andi's face. Oh, well, it looked like Andi hadn't figured  _quite_  that much out. That was a bad look, certainly, but Hazel couldn't tell what kind of bad look. 'How often did they let you out?' This question was low, barely above a whisper, way too...afraid-sounding to be Andi. Andi always sounded like she knew exactly what she was doing. Sort of how she imagined Mum might, actually. But anyway, Andi sounding uncertain was just weird.

'Er... Depends on the day?' She shrugged again — she did seem to be doing a lot of that this conversation. 'Sometimes they just locked me in there at night, sometimes they didn't let me out at all. It depends.'

'Hazel, look at me.'

Oh, Dumbledore talked finally. He hadn't said anything in a while. She was a bit awkward at the moment, more than usual, but she guessed she could do that. And maybe it would get him to go away faster if she didn't make a thing about something so little. So she looked up, quickly finding twinkling blue eyes with her own.

An instant later, her vision turned white, and her head was filled with fire.

 _Everything_  hurt. Her eyes hurt, her ears hurt, her throat hurt, her neck hurt, even her  _brain_  hurt, which was weird, because she hadn't thought the inside of her head  _could_  hurt. It was hot, and it was  _everywhere_ , like someone had poured bubbling grease into her skull, and it burned away everything else, blinded by white light from nowhere, her ears ringing with nothing, blood tingling on her tongue.

It took a moment, but she eventually decided her ears weren't  _just_  ringing. She heard a voice, one she didn't recognise, screaming and ranting in fury.

And then, something  _shifted_. She couldn't say what it was, where it was, if it was even part of her or not. But she felt it, like a bone moving from one place to another under her skin, but more in her thoughts than in her body, it was hard to put words to.

 _Enjoy the headache, you self-righteous, arrogant old berk! Try that again, oooh, just try that again, I fucking_ _ **dare**_   _you—_

Hazel blinked, the white in her vision clearing away to a somewhat blurry picture of her surroundings. She was laying on her back, she realised, on the sofa, Andi kneeling on the ground next to her, wand out and fingers trailing along her hairline. Her fingers were really tingly, and Hazel had the weird feeling she was doing magic, which was interesting because Mum had said almost everyone else always used their wands.

_She is doing magic. It's a basic charm to reduce inflammation, feels like. Her wand is sort of busy being pointed at Dumbledore right now._

Hazel blinked some more, turned her head a little — she winced at the lightning pain springing across her head at the tiny motion — to see Andi had her wand held on Dumbledore, still sitting there but now rubbing his head with the fingers of both hands, looking very uncomfortable. Oh. So it was.

_Yes. She's not at all happy with him trying to read your mind. I did kick him out before he saw anything, by the way. Gave him a little piece of my mind while I was at it, too._

Wait, read her mind? People could read her mind? That was crazy, why hadn't Mum mentioned this before if...it was...

Hazel stared unseeing at the ceiling, too shocked to pay attention to anything around her. She'd been too disoriented from whatever had just happened, too hurting, to think too hard right away about the words in her head that weren't hers. But now, now that the white was gone and it didn't hurt so much, now she had a suspicion what exactly that other voice was. Mum?

_Yes, Hazel, it's me._

So...apparently she could talk directly into her thoughts now.

_It seems like it._

How did that happen? She couldn't do it before. If she could, they wouldn't have bothered writing back and forth like that all awkward...

_I have no idea how it happened. I think I might have done something dealing with Dumbledore's legilimency probe._

Er, done what?

_I don't know! I'm as lost on this one as you are, Hazel. I was never that great with mind magic. It doesn't feel like I broke anything important, but I really don't know._

Oh. Er, okay then. So, mind reading was a thing? Why hadn't that come up before? She meant, Mum had said she had to keep Mum's existence a secret, but if people could just pull it out of her mind, then that would be bad.

 _I never thought to mention the possibility because I hadn't thought it would be an issue for some time, if ever. Reading someone's mind without their consent is considered minor assault. Doing it on a_ _ **child**_ _? That's a serious crime, serious enough it carries a prison sentence. I didn't expect it to be a problem any time soon, and I_ _ **certainly**_   _didn't expect Albus sodding Dumbledore to do it. Seriously, what the fuck is he thinking..._

There were words in that explanation Hazel didn't know. At least, words Hazel was pretty sure she didn't know. It was mildly confusing, because she knew she didn't know them, but at the same time she knew exactly what they meant. She suspected a bit more was leaking into her head than just Mum's thoughts. Which was fine, it was just a little confusing to both know something and not know something. But anyway, who was this old berk — that was the word Mum had used, right?

_Jesus, you heard that. I don't think I can censor my own thoughts, so you're probably going to hear me cursing quite a bit._

Hazel felt a smile twitch unsteadily at her lips. Anyway, who was he, why was he just—

'—whatever excuses you want, Dumbledore.' Hazel winced at the shiver of pain Andi's raised voice shot through her skull. Apparently, her hearing was working properly again. 'I honestly don't care whether you got any useful information or not.'

Dumbledore, still rubbing at his forehead in mostly-concealed pain, gave Andi what  _almost_  looked like an annoyed look. But only almost, it was barely there. 'Aren't you the least bit curious exactly how the magic failed? She could be in—'

'The voice did it.'

Everyone in the room turned to stare at Hazel, Dumbledore even cutting off in mid-sentence. Hazel was just as surprised and confused as they were — she hadn't meant to say anything, Mum must have done it. The room was filled with a heavy silence for a few long moments, finally broken by Dumbledore, his voice thin and cautious. 'The voice? What voice, Hazel?'

'Well, not voice. It doesn't...' Hazel felt herself frown, also without her input. It was a really weird feeling, her body doing things without her meaning to, all tingly and weird and kinda scary, but it was Mum, and she knew what she was doing, so Hazel tried to ignore it. 'It doesn't  _talk_ , really. Not in words. That's just what I call it.'

'What does it say to you? In not-words.' Hazel was a little surprised to see Dumbledore looked scared. His voice had gone even paler, his eyes wide and jittering. It was kinda funny-looking, actually, but this Dumbledore bloke was funny-looking to begin with.

'Not a lot. It just kinda...hums at me. All nice and warm. And it gets all sharp when people are mean.' She felt the dopey smile cross her face. 'Mum put it there, see. It takes care of me.' The smile disappeared, turning into a frown. Hazel only realised the back of her neck was tingling when her arm failed to move, so she couldn't rub at it.  _Sorry about that_ , Mum thought at her, Hazel's arm moving to do what she'd wanted, but still in Mum's control.  _I'm almost done burying him, one more minute._  'You tried to do mean magic at me. The voice doesn't like you.'

If Hazel were in control of herself, she'd probably be giggling. Dumbledore just looked so silly! His eyes had somehow gone even wider, almost popping out of his head, and now his mouth had dropped open too. And his cheeks were starting to go pink, really obvious against the white of his beard. It was funny. After a few moments, Dumbledore did manage to get his mouth closed so he could talk, but he still seemed a bit...she didn't know. Surprised? Confused? 'I assure you, Hazel, the last thing I would ever do is intentionally cause you harm.. If you could tell your...voice, to let me—'

'No.'

Dumbledore blinked at that, jerking back in his chair as though stung by the word. 'Hazel, my girl, I—'

Before he could get any farther, with a glare on her face so hard on her face it almost hurt, Mum-as-Hazel cut him off again. 'Why should I trust  _you?_  I don't know you. It says you're mean and whatever you did hurt so I'm not telling it anything for you.'

'While I would normally hesitate to agree with disembodied voices,' Ted said, a hint of dark humour about his own, 'I'm afraid I can't argue with this one. There is no reason Hazel should consent to an examination through active mind magic. And you, High Enchanter, have no right to compel her to do so.'

Hazel felt an odd easing, like relaxing, all the tension going out of her limbs all at once. She blinked to herself, realised even in doing it that she had control of her body again. Oh. Okay. That had been kinda weird.

_I imagine it is a bit uncomfortable when you're actually awake for it. I'll keep it to a minimum, only for emergencies._

While Hazel frowned at that thought, Dumbledore was saying, 'You are speaking legally? Well, there you are mistaken, I'm afraid. I was granted trusteeship of House Potter back in eighty-two. I'm sure you remember.'

_This was an emergency. We had to explain Dumbledore's clumsy attempt at legilimency failing somehow. That's not something children your age can just do without outside assistance. He has to suspect I did something that night to protect you, though I'd be surprised if his guess is anywhere close. What I told him will lead him to assumptions that won't make him too suspicious._

What bad assumptions would he make anyway?

_That you're experimenting with volatile and very dangerous magics on your own. Somehow._

That's stupid.

Mum apparently had no response for that.

'—outdated. Just a little bit. Maybe.'

A quick glance around, and she saw Ted was smiling, Andi was smiling. But they weren't nice smiles. They were wide and toothy, and it was kinda funny how much they matched. Andi and Ted were as different as the Dursleys at times — Andi was dark and thin and still and sharp, Ted light and round and bouncy and soft. But right now, with that same evil smirk on their faces, despite how different they looked in every other way, they almost seemed the same person.

_People who've never met Ted wondered what Andromeda Black, of all people, could possibly see in him. He may be a badger, but people should remember what can happen when you make the bloody little buggers angry._

What do badgers have to do with—

'Got the papers, love?'

'Oh, yes, got them right here.' Ted moved from where he was standing behind the sofa — he'd appeared there after everything'd gone white, didn't notice him getting there. And now he was back, in front of the couch, handing a big brown paper folder to Dumbledore. 'I believe you'll find everything to our satisfaction, High Enchanter.'

_Ha! Our satisfaction. Andi has been a terrible influence._

Dumbledore laid the folder open in his lap. Inside were a bunch of that weird yellowish paper magic people used, covered in black squiggles. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed as he read the first page. Fingers shaking a little, he flipped it over to read the next. 'But that would mean...' He flipped to another, another, his face falling further and further with each line he read.

_Oh, god, this is beautiful, I love it._

Mum was really being quite distracting. Hazel was trying to pay attention. Wasn't this stuff important?

_Sorry, sweetheart. People hardly ever beat Dumbledore at his own game. Old berk doesn't even know how to handle this, it's great._

Who was this Dumbledore person any—

'You've been very busy.' Carefully, Dumbledore restacked the papers, getting them to sit perfectly straight before closing the folder again. 'You've only had her here a couple weeks. How did you get this arranged so quickly?'

Ted sat in his armchair again, crossed his ankles, laced his fingers in his lap. 'How did we arrange this without you finding out, you mean.'

Hazel was watching, but she still barely noticed Dumbledore's left eye twitch.

'See I was talking to Laura one day.' Ted's smirk widened, shifting into a bright grin. 'You know Laura? Maybe not, most people don't notice her. Laura Tugwood, nice girl, but not quite an impeccable picture of pureblood perfection. She doesn't carry a wand, and is a bit simple, if you follow my meaning. Lady Tugwood got her a quiet little job with the Office of Records. It's hardly glamorous, just moving files around in dark, dusty storerooms, but Laura doesn't mind. Sweet girl, just happy to feel useful.

'But anyway, I told her about Hazel here, how suspicious we were that she'd been off in the muggle world so long with no one the wiser.  _Someone_  should have checked up on her at some point, there should be records somewhere. A couple days later, I was there on an unrelated matter, and Laura, bless her simple soul, she'd apparently decided to check out the Potter files with Wizengamot Administration Services. She found something curious. It seems a temporary hold was put on the Lord and Lady Potter's last will and testament after their deaths, pending a determination of the House's status by WAS. And, it's most curious, after Hazel here was formally registered as a protected national treasure in February of eighty-two by a full vote of the Wizengamot — I'm sure you recall, it  _was_  your idea — the case was shuffled out of rotation. It's still open, in fact, six years later.

'Now...' The teeth went back into Ted's smile, his voice light and casual. '...don't you think that's suspicious? Why, if I didn't know better, I might think  _someone_  was using his influence as an officer of the court to illegally gain control over a Noble House, complete with all its wealth and the last remaining heir. An heir who also happens to be one of only three human national treasure currently alive, Elizabeth sodding Potter! Imagine what the papers would do with that!

'Laura,  _sweet_  girl, was kind enough to file the appropriate paperwork to get custody of Hazel temporarily transferred to us, until such time as the will is read. Which should be any day now. And since it's so suspicious, she agreed to skip properly listing either issue in the alerts queue. We wouldn't want someone with nefarious motives to neutralise our efforts to protect poor Hazel until we can get everything squared away, you see.'

Andi, wearing the toothiest smirk yet, purred, 'We should get Miss Tugwood something nice.'

'One of those little songbirds. Girl loves birds.'

'Remind me next time we're in London.'

'Of course, love.'

Hazel wasn't entirely sure what was going on. She knew hardly anything about the things they'd been talking about — even ignoring some of the words being beyond her, she had no idea what a Wizengamot was, or what that had to do with anything. And it sort of sounded like Ted had been talking around the point, instead of coming right out and saying the message Dumbledore was supposed to get. She was  _almost_  certain there had been a point. The adults were all staring at each other, Dumbledore's wrinkly beard-covered face halfway between shocked and sad, the Tonkses just smirking. That self-satisfied smirk some people wore when they had won, they knew they'd won, the person they'd beaten knew they'd won. Something important had just happened, Hazel wasn't stupid enough to miss that.

But even if Hazel couldn't begin to explain to herself what that something was, she was certain it was a good thing. She wasn't sure how she knew this, but somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she could have sworn her mother was wearing the same smirk.


	3. Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The largest time skip I've ever done in any chapter ever, holy shit.

_**THE GIRL-WHO-LIVED RETURNS!** _

_DLE Opens Investigation into Suspicious Handling of Potter Estate_

_October the 31st, 1981: a date which shall always be remembered by the grateful people of the Celtic Nations as the day life triumphed over death. A reminder, for everyone the world over who has heard the story, that no matter how dark and long the night the morning will surely come in time._

_We know He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fell that day. To this day, nobody can tell us why, only that it somehow involves Elizabeth "Hazel" Potter. Somehow, for some reason, when this powerless child, hardly a year old, found herself under a wand that had brought agony and death to uncounted wizards and witches, it was instead the dreaded Dark Lord who was killed. Was he brought low by some unprecedented surge of accidental magic? Did the Potters perhaps lay some protective enchantment, striking You-Know-Who after he'd been sure the danger had passed? Does the child perhaps have some innate abilities never before seen? Theories abound, but none claim to know for certain what happened that day, in an unassuming cottage hidden in Godric's Hollow._

_No matter how it happened, a relieved nation had celebrated the end of the darkest of times, a hopeless struggle that had seemed eternal. And, though we didn't know why, we thanked Hazel Potter, feeling our indebtedness to the very depths of our souls. We called her the Miracle Child, the Girl-Who-Lived. And, within a half a year, the Wizengamot officially recognised her as a Living Treasure of the Celtic Nations — only the eleventh so named, one of but three currently living, alongside Albus Dumbledore and Bathilda Bagshot. We might not know the exact circumstance that had brought it about, but we recognised our debt to the young Lady Potter and we, as a people, were more than happy to fulfill it._

_But, it seems, without even realising it, we have failed in our duties most grievously._

_Readers will recall that, since that day in 1981, Hazel Potter has been the last living member of what had been a great and powerful Noble House. Once numbering in the hundreds, spread across dozens of homes, the family had been particularly hard-hit in the Dark Lady Cromwell's purges during the Seventeenth Century. The remnants of the House have been slowly dwindling ever since, until only a single household remained: Lord Charlus, Elizabeth, his daughter by his first wife (Ceinwen née Fawley, d. 1948), his second wife Dorea (née Black), and his son James. Charlus and Dorea were found dead in their home in the last days of 1977, presumably by Death Eaters unnamed. On March 25th 1980, Elizabeth was publicly murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself — the Aurors later revealed the attack, at a Knockturn Alley pub in broad daylight, was revenge for her work with the Order of Agastya, for which she was posthumously awarded the Order of Myrddin, Second Class in 1982. And, of course, James and Lily (née Evans) followed on that fateful Hallowe'en, the very last to fall to You-Know-Who's evil._

_In the immediate aftermath of her parents' deaths, High Enchanter Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and personal friend of her father, took custody of young Hazel. At the time, this was intended to be a temporary arrangement, until a more permanent guardian could be assigned. But, even with the Dark Lord having fallen, tragedy yet struck. In early November, Sirius Black, Heir Presumptive of the Noble and Most Ancient House of the same name and Hazel's named nodhathir, was arrested by Aurors and sentenced to life in Azkaban. Later the same month, Alice Longbottom (née Prewett), decorated Auror and Hazel's named nodhxam, was ruled permanently incapacitated by Saint Mungo's Healers after a Death Eater attack at her home led by Bellatrix Lestrange. With the status of House Potter yet undetermined by Wizengamot Administration Services, it was unknown whether the late Lord and Lady Potter had had the foresight to make arrangements for their daughter._

_In the end, the Wizengamot handed over trusteeship of House Potter to the High Enchanter himself. Dumbledore told the authorities and the press that, following the wishes of the last Potters, he had placed Hazel with unnamed muggle relatives of her mother, where she was safe and happy._

_Unfortunately, dear readers, we can now confirm the truth was not nearly so pretty a picture as the High Enchanter painted._

' _Oh, he lied,' says Edward Tonks (35). 'He flat-out lied.'_

_A junior partner with Evermonde and Slinkhard Legal Services, Mr Tonks first captured public attention with his highly controversial elopement with Andromeda Tonks (34), formerly of the NMA House of Black. After returning to Britain in December 1982, Mr Tonks quickly obtained a license to practise law, and has since developed significant renown in his particular area of practice. Mrs Tonks recently accepted a position as a spell damage specialist at Saint Mungo's Hospital._

' _Hazel was supposed to go to us. They asked us before Hazel was even born, during a short visit where we'd been living in Aquitania at the time. We even sued for custody in December, and challenged the sealing of James and Lily's will the next February. Both petitions were dismissed out of hand.' A quick check with the Office of Records corroborates Mr Tonks's claim: the Tonkses sued for custody of Miss Potter on the 5th of December, 1981, citing the parents' wishes, and challenged Mr Dumbledore's trusteeship of House Potter the very day it was granted by vote of the Wizengamot, and both petitions were, in fact, dismissed without review._

_Laura Tugwood (29), a clerk with the Office of Records, told this reporter her suspicions. 'No petition like that is ever dismissed without review. It's outside procedure. I had trouble finding the files. Someone tried to bury them, but I don't know who, and I don't know why.'_

_When asked who would have the authority to dismiss a petition_ ultra vires _, Miss Tugwood suggested the High Enchanter, the Deputy Director of WAS, and perhaps the Minister. As this was done outside proper channels, there is no record of which gave the order._

' _Whoever did it, however it was done, it certainly wasn't legal. Everything about how the affairs of House Potter were handled in those months smells funny.' After having the matter brought to her attention by Mr Tonks, Miss Tugwood filed a motion to have the trust suspended, until such time James and Lily Potter's will could be recovered and properly executed. WAS certified the petition a few days later, and the will was read a week later, three days ago._

_Most of the contents are considered House business, and are therefore confidential. However, the Daily Prophet can confirm, should Sirius Black and Alice Longbottom both be determined unfit, James and Lily Potter did state custody of their daughter should next be given to the Tonkses. (Custody of Miss Potter, along with trusteeship of her House, was officially granted to the Tonkses early this week.) There were a few further candidates after the Tonkses — given the general unrest of the period, such was not at all unusual — but nowhere on the list are found the late Lady Lily's muggle relatives._

_Starting in early April, Mr and Mrs Tonks received letters through the muggle post from Hazel Potter, now seven years old. 'I instantly knew something was wrong,' says Mrs Tonks. 'Hazel's letters were simple, but gave no information at all about her relatives, what she did day to day. Not even when asked directly. We were suspicious, so we decided to visit.'_

_On April 29th, the Tonkses arrived at the home of the late Lady Lily's elder sister, Petunia Dursley (née Evans), her husband Vernon Dursley, and their son Dudley._

' _When we were coming up to the door,' says Mr Tonks, 'we heard some sort of commotion coming from inside. I'll admit, I was far slower to act. Before I could blink, Andi had her wand out, ran into the house, I was just trying to keep up. Made it to the living room in time to catch her nailing Dursley with a stunner.'_

_When asked why she'd stunned the muggle on first sight, Mrs Tonks said, 'Because cursing him hadn't seemed quite appropriate.'_

_Mr Tonks quickly clarified Mr Dursley had been in the act of physically assaulting Miss Potter. If they hadn't had a Healer on hand, Mr Tonks says, they would have had to bring her straight to Saint Mungo's._

_The Tonkses are reluctant to give many details regarding what they discovered at the Dursley home. 'Dursley was beating her when we arrived. It was clear she was underfed, and she admits she spent a fair amount of time locked in a very small room alone. What else she may or may not have told us so far, we will not share unless legally compelled.'_

_Nonetheless, the Daily Prophet can confirm both Dursleys have been charged with varying counts of criminal child abuse by the muggle courts. At time of publishing, the dates of their trials have not yet been determined._

_It is clear Hazel Potter has been living for the past six years in nightmarish conditions, in a home the High Enchanter placed her in illegally. The apparent likelihood that Mr Dumbledore may have illegally assumed control of House Potter, and neglected proper care of the only living member during his tenure as trustee, is already the subject of an investigation._

_Late yesterday, Amelia Bones (33), recently appointed Director of the Department of Law Enforcement, gave a brief statement. 'Our investigators are working with Wizengamot Administration Services to determine whether legal precedent was properly observed in the management of House Potter since the death of Lord James in '81. It is yet premature for me to assert we have found any evidence of wrongdoing, and I cannot yet say whether we will be bringing charges against anyone involved.'_

_When asked whether the High Enchanter's personal finances were under scrutiny, Director Bones confirmed they were already in the process of auditing his accounts. 'Any suspicion any trustee is enriching themselves at the expense of an estate the Wizengamot saw fit to grant them custody of must be investigated with thoroughness commensurate to the seriousness of the accusation. Mr Dumbledore and Hogwarts Academy are both to be audited in the coming weeks.'_

_Director Bones cautions that no charges have yet been filed, and it is too early to come to any conclusions about the guilt or innocence of any party. All the same, certain voices in the Wizengamot are already taking action. It is very likely the High Enchanter will be publicly censured, and there have been whispers to call a vote of no confidence._

' _We all owe Hazel Potter our lives,' says Lady Ciardha (59), NMA House of Monroe. 'Allowing this idiocy to happen is a poor way of repaying our debt. I doubt we'll achieve much more than give our illustrious High Enchanter a slap on the wrist, but we must do something. This failure in his appointed duties is unacceptable, and that must be acknowledged.'_

_Despite repeated enquiries, Mr Dumbledore is unavailable for comment._

* * *

Alastor Moody finally managed to close the heavy oak door behind him. Grumbling about bloody academics and their love of inconveniently ostentatious architecture, he thumped across the Entrance Hall, the polished marble amplifying his uneven steps into a harsh, staccato beat. On the way, he flung away the rainwater clinging to his clothes and person with a wordless, wandless charm, the droplets falling to the tile in a diffuse spray.

He half-hoped one of the elves didn't get to the mess first. That bloody squib could use all the work he could get to distract himself from his fantasies of torturing children. Why Albus kept that deranged little shite around, he had no idea...

Alastor proceeded on the long, exhausting trek up to Albus's office, cursing to himself with each stair along the way. He really had to hand it to muggles, at least they could design buildings he could limp around without needing a pain potion just to get to someone's office. Did this damn school really need this many stairs? Honestly, now.

Eventually, he made it to that bloody gargoyle, rattled off a list of sweets until the ridiculous thing leapt aside when Alastor stumbled upon whichever was Albus's asinine password today. Then he was on stairs again, but these at least had the decency to do the work for him. He threw the door open without bothering to knock, without even the slightest pause. Without a word of introduction, before Albus could even tear his eyes fully from the papers spread across his desk, Alastor said, 'Monroe is clean.'

Albus let out a long sigh, a hand rising to rub at the side of his forehead. 'I admit I suspected she would be. But it would have made things so much simpler.'

There was no real answer for that. Alastor plodded across the room, but not toward the desk. A moment later he was flinging his cloak across one of the tables — he caught the twitch of a frown cross Albus's face, surely at the thought Alastor might have broken one of his silly little trinkets — then sinking into one of the armchairs set before the fire. He was still for a moment, eyes closed, luxuriating in the heat from the fire washing through him, the pulsing ache from old injuries stressed anew weakening with each second.

He saw Albus watching him, a faint look of concern on his face. He could smell him hesitating, weighing the risks inherent in asking after Alastor's well-being, whether it was worth certainly annoying him to be sure he wasn't quietly bleeding out or something.

So he spoke before Albus could make this visit any more aggravating than it needed to be. Not that he really had anything critically important to communicate, the words themselves weren't really the point. 'She has a few less-than-sparkling arrangements with other British Houses — or, at least, there are  _hints_  she does, I wasn't able to confirm anything — but would you really expect anything else? Monroe is one of the Most Ancient Houses, and one of the darker ones at that, I wouldn't believe for a second all her dealings are legitimate. But no, there is no evidence she has any direct ties to any of the major players involved with your trouble in the Senate. You'd have to be barking to think she's entirely innocent, but when it comes to this one thing?' He shrugged.

'I suppose it was too much to hope for.' Giving the paperwork on his desk a last baleful glance, Albus pushed himself to his feet, dropping a moment later into the other armchair before the fire. 'So many oppositional voices raising all at once, it had seemed a possibility they were from a single source. Since it was Monroe who started the failed motion to recall me from the Senate, I had thought it might be her. That sort of tampering in the diplomatic process is illegal, and I'd be able to...' Albus trailed off, hesitated a moment, then finished with a sigh and a shrug in lieu of proper speech.

Alastor had to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from commenting, and even then it was a near thing. Even when they'd first met, Albus hadn't responded well to being called an idiot, and he hadn't gotten any less sensitive about it over the years.

Not that he thought Albus had a leg to stand on — he  _was_  being an idiot. Since about the fifties or so, he'd noticed Albus had an unhealthy tendency toward paranoia. Now, some might think that a rather ironic thing for Alastor to criticise someone else for, but, as the saying goes, it's not paranoia when someone really is out to get you. Alastor couldn't count how many Hit Wizards or Aurors he'd known who had been injured or even murdered in revenge. By people they'd put away, after their release back into society, or sometimes at the hands of relatives or friends of someone they'd arrested or taken out. Alastor's career spanned a good seven decades, and he'd put away  _hundreds_  of seriously dangerous sons of bitches. While it was a lot less frequent, he  _had_  participated in two more extended conflicts. He'd killed more than his fair share of dark wizards — in fact, he'd killed more suspects than any living Auror in Europe. Not that he resorted to lethal measures more often, no, he'd simply been at it that much longer than anyone else.

Well, excluding the war in France, anyway. Their people still kept a wary eye on him whenever he visited. Not too surprising, really, the post-revolution government had been filled with Grindelwald sympathisers from practically the beginning, despite their dear leader already having been firmly behind bars by then. They had rather neatly purged the old aristocracy, he guessed he couldn't have expected anything else to happen.

But anyway, his precautions were entirely justified. There were a  _lot_  of people out there who hated his guts, and some of them had the ability and the lack of morals necessary to do something about it.  _Just in the last year_ , he'd caught two attempts on his own life. One of them had been rather clever, actually — a fadesink on the wards around his home attempting to remove him from the permissions block, turning his own protections against him. If his weekly check of his wards had been one day later, that one might have actually killed him. And he still didn't know who'd done it, bloody irritating.

Albus had stepped on plenty of toes in his own way, of course. If he didn't spend most of his time at Hogwarts, and thus under the best wards in the whole damn country, Alastor wouldn't be surprised if he'd have to deal with regular assassination attempts himself. But that wasn't Albus's problem. Even Alastor, so "paranoid" people made jokes about it behind his back, made up ridiculous nicknames they thought he didn't know about, even he knew the various people out for his head were working independently. There was no grand conspiracy of people trying to murder him. Just individual people, who hated him for their individual reasons. A rational threat, and a manageable one.

Albus, though, Albus saw grand conspiracies. When one person popped up who had some beef with him, and then other people started voicing similar criticisms, Albus saw a pattern. Monroe regularly spoke out against him, called to have him removed as High Enchanter, then, when that didn't work, tried to have him pulled as their representative to the ICW. She wasn't the only voice speaking against him in the Wizengamot, of course — not even his oldest political enemy, but she was formerly an ally of convenience, and she was very noisy about it these days. Albus saw her as the instigator. She'd turned on him, and all these other new discontents, they were following her lead. He wasn't so far gone to assume most were being coerced somehow. Some of them, probably, but most? No, Monroe had simply talked them into it somehow. The woman could be persuasive when she wanted to be, Alastor had to give him that. This new resistance the Wizengamot was giving him, Albus thought, that was all Monroe, her campaign against him growing in strength. It was only Monroe he had to worry about — cut off the head of the snake, and all that.

Then, more recently, the  _Senate themselves_  started talking about expelling Albus as Supreme Consul. Quite seriously, in fact — Alastor thought it very likely Albus's days at the head of the ICW were numbered. Albus's first thought? Monroe, somehow, had gotten some influence over his various opponents in the Senate. Not all of them, of course, but enough to introduce the issue, get momentum going. Monroe was the primary cause, he was certain of that. And so he'd asked Alastor to look into it, see if she had any suspect international dealings, any nefarious ties with the Senators calling for his removal most strongly.

And, of course, Alastor had found nothing. Honestly, he hadn't expected to. Albus was correct in thinking there was a single cause for all the political difficulties he'd been having recently. He was simply attributing it to the wrong source. His problem wasn't a single Lady of the Wizengamot going on a crusade against him, no. It was his own actions that were fucking him over. And Albus, with his usual obstinacy, was failing to see it.

Not that Alastor was surprised. This sort of foible wasn't too far removed from the general theme of Albus's career. He'd been convinced from the start the passionate, principled man wasn't at all suited to politics, and Albus hadn't managed a thing in these decades to change his mind.

'Have you thought about retiring?'

Albus turned to stare at him, eyes wide and slowly blinking. 'Retiring?'

'I don't mean leave Hogwarts, I know you love it here.' Personally, Alastor found the blind fondness many alumni had for the place to be a bit silly, but this was hardly the time to talk about that. 'But maybe it's time to leave the Senate. The Wizengamot too.' High Enchanters were selected for life, but they usually stepped down voluntarily when their health started failing, or sometimes much earlier, if they decided they wanted to do something else with themselves. There was a long precedent for this sort of thing.

Eyebrows tightening a bit into a faint frown, Albus said nothing, just staring at him in silence for long seconds. Alastor didn't even have to look properly to catch the suspicious glint in his eyes.

'For the love of— Don't give me that look! I'm not turning on you, you crazy old fool. You should know that.'

Albus gave him a somewhat sheepish shrug, then an apology Alastor wasn't really listening to. It was honest, he was sure. Albus's apologies always were, when he finally got around to giving them. But then, Alastor was just as shite at receiving them as Albus was at giving them — he never knew what to say, one of those social things he'd never gotten the hang of.

So he just grunted it off, Albus knew to accept that. 'I know you don't enjoy this shite. You complain about those noble arseholes nigh weekly, and you don't like the ICW any more. And you've been doing this shite for so bloody long. It's a lot of work for men our age, you can't tell me it isn't costing you.'

And Albus smiled at him, that sad, empty smile he got sometimes. Alastor fucking hated that smile. 'Don't you think it would be quite silly to keep doing this for so long if I didn't get some fulfillment out of it?'

'Don't give me that shite.' Alastor turned his head against the chair's back enough to look at Albus more fully, letting a smirk pull at the stiff skin of his face. 'You couldn't fool me when you were just a fresh-faced, annoyingly charming Transfiguration Professor, and you still can't fool me now.'

Life seeped into Albus's false smile, eyes warming and lips softening. 'Annoyingly charming, huh? I didn't realise I was  _annoyingly_  charming.'

Alastor snorted. 'Never wondered why I kept aiming for your face?'

His smile went still wider, eyes turning from Alastor's to stare out into the distance. Likely remembering those duelling lessons Alastor had given him, what felt like forever ago now. When was it exactly, '27? '28? Fuck, they were getting so bloody old...

'But anyway,' Alastor started, shaking off his own thoughts, 'politics is a young man's game. Why do you think all those Lords and Ladies put their heirs in their seats when they start getting up in years? How many of the people in that chamber are actually the heads of their Houses — half, if even that many?'

Albus's smile tilted into the slightest of smirks, eyes dancing brightly with half-hidden mirth. 'And hunting dark wizards is a perfectly appropriate past time for us crumbling relics.'

'There's a reason I'm hardly ever in the field anymore.' Honestly, he was powerful enough and clever enough he'd had a good few decades in him left before his fading physical abilities slowed him down too much. Before that Voldemort shite and his bloody Death fucking Eaters. Too many of them were  _far_  too skilled with a wand — just Dolohov and the top cunt himself had probably shortened his effective career by dozens of years. At this point, the only thing he was good for was training rookies and helping reason out the trickier cases. Which was bloody tedious, he'd probably be retiring in a decade or so himself. 'And it's not because I have a secret love of paperwork.

'Really, Albus. You should consider it. You're working yourself into an early grave as it is. Honestly, with all the curses I've taken over the years, I'm lucky to be alive, and if I live long enough to attend your funeral I'll be  _very_  annoyed.'

Album smiled at him, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. Beneath the years, the wrinkles and that bloody beard, the weight of failures and tragedies one after the other, Alastor could make out the man he'd once been. Handsome and aware of it, intelligent and aware of it, powerful, oh yes, aware of that too. But gentle, that civilised calm all intellectual types seemed to wear like a cloak, the warmth of a man who considered all the world one House, he a son dedicated to his family's welfare. And, all at once, a hint of mischief in the tilt of his lips, the tone of his voice, polite words, self-effacing, but with mocking sarcasm so subtle you couldn't be convinced it was really there.

Oh yes, annoyingly charming, no doubt about it. Honestly, it still irritated him sometimes.

'Why, I'm shocked,' Albus said, the teasing smile thicker on his voice than his face. 'If I didn't know better, I would almost think you're getting sentimental on me.'

Alastor shrugged. 'Good thing you know better.'

'Quite.' They were both quiet a moment, staring absently into the fire. Hopefully Albus was considering his advice, it'd be a nice change of pace. Finally, Albus shifted a bit, his voice easy and casual. 'Will you be staying tonight?'

Alastor let his head fall against the back of his chair, letting out a low groan. 'Damn it, Albus. Was it the annoyingly charming thing? I knew I shouldn't have said that.'

Albus just smiled at him. Amusement in the tilt of his lips, but affection in the warmth of his eyes.

'Ergh, fine, then. Pour the damn brandy already.' While Albus moved to fetch the drinks, chuckling under his breath, Alastor sat unmoving, watching him.

The little shite, maybe he was right. Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age.

He still wasn't saying it, though.

* * *

_**Mirabella Zabini Appointed to Hogwarts Board of Governors** _

_Promises to Review Staffing, Admittance Standards_

_In a surprise decision by the Hogwarts Board of Governors late last week, Mirabella Zabini, Director of the Department of Education since July 1985, was selected to fill the recently vacated long-term seat. In a statement released alongside the announcement, the Board acknowledges the appointment may be controversial._

_After a challenge against her being denied admission, leading to a long and heated debate that even spilled onto the Wizengamot floor in 1962, Mme Zabini is the first known lilin to attend Hogwarts. Mme Zabini is, in fact, a second cousin of the Princess Zabini, a prominent lilin politician and prolific patron of the arts active in Naples. At the time, the Zabinis, a cadet branch of the lilin royal family, were open with their intentions in having one of their daughters placed in the most selective school of magic in Britain: lilin and veela have long been unwelcome in the Celtic Nations, a state of affairs they are seeking to change._

_After graduating with the Slytherin class of 1970, while simultaneously pursuing masteries in enchanting and warding, Mme Zabini entered a low-level clerical position with the Department of Education. Within eight years and after several promotions, Mme Zabini rose to Deputy Director. After a long debate in the Wizengamot, Mme Zabini was confirmed as Director of Education just seven years later, becoming the first lilin voting member in the history of the Wizengamot._

_In a statement released to the Daily Prophet shortly after her appointment to the Board, Mme Zabini expressed concerns about the performance of the academy in recent decades. 'It is indisputable that the average NEWT scores of Hogwarts graduates have been steadily dropping since the 1920s. In my time with the Office of Certifications and Licensures, I observed a peculiar change in the perception of a Hogwarts education among mastery programs and apprentice-seeking masters. There was once a time a Hogwarts education was considered the best a European mage could hope for, the pinnacle of academic excellence. This century, we have seen Hogwarts be passed over for accolades by various continental schools. Even domestically, every year since 1973 the OWL program and these last two years the NEWT program at an Ollscoil na Caoimhe were rated higher than Hogwarts' own by multiple impartial authorities. For a school of Hogwarts' prestige, this is simply unacceptable.'_

_Before printing, the Office of Certifications and Licensures with the Department of Education and the Office of Records with Wizengamot Administration Services, as well as the Committee for Magical Education with the International Confederation of Wizards, all corroborated Mme Zabini's claims._

_When asked to what she attributes the recent decline in the performance of Hogwarts students, Mme Zabini had an instant answer._

' _However much I may want to deny it sometimes, Albus Dumbledore is a great wizard. We personally do not get along — I can only tolerate the presence of someone who distrusts me solely due to my heritage for so long before I start to get a little snitty, I'm sure you understand.'_

_To clarify for readers who may not be aware, the High Enchanter has opposed granting greater personal rights to lilin on multiple occasions, while simultaneously advocating human status for veela. 'Which, honestly, is a silly position,' Mme Zabini says on the topic. Lilin and veela consider themselves to be two varieties of the same people — they together have their own government, operating under the Kemetic Union near Persia, which has consistently protested any human law recognising the two as separate races._

' _Despite our personal differences, I can acknowledge Mr Dumbledore is a great man, one who has done great things. However, he is also a very busy man. Headmaster of Hogwarts, High Enchanter of the Wizengamot, Supreme Consul of the ICW, not to mention his incessant academic publications! With everything that has his attention, is it so inconceivable that something might fall through the cracks? We already know he failed to sufficiently fulfill his duties to House Potter, with tragic consequences. The ICW replaced him as Supreme Consul just last year, after a determination he was not executing his office well enough for their tastes. When it comes to the welfare of our children, less than our best is simply not acceptable. Their education is too important to be left in the hands of someone overly distracted by other concerns.'_

_When asked whether she would be pushing for the dismissal of the Headmaster in the near future, Mme Zabini simply said, 'I'm certain we will be reviewing his performance in the coming months, and everything must be on the table.'_

Hazel stopped reading the paper, distracted by the sense of amusement pulsing out from a dark corner of her own mind.

She was sitting out in the yard, back against a tree, the cool breeze of the clear late spring morning picking at her hair. As usual, she had gotten up at a quiet hour of the morning — even after an hour or so, there were only the barest hints of sunrise warming the eastern horizon before her. Mum had insisted it was best to practise where no one would see her, if only because it would be difficult to explain exactly how she had figured out wandless magic on her own. (Mum had apparently been somewhat well-known for her own precocious use of wandless magic, so it wasn't impossible, but better safe than sorry.) Getting up ridiculously early to practise was an easy solution. As usual, she'd swiped today's paper from the kitchen table on the way out. Not that she actually cared that much, Mum just wanted to keep track of what was going on, and she couldn't do it without Hazel.

She'd only been half paying attention when Mum had gone through the paper herself — Mum read a lot faster than her, she had to skim to keep up — but since one of the articles had to do with Hogwarts, and she'd be starting at Hogwarts in a couple months, she'd decided to go back and read that one properly. She remembered Mum had snickered a bit reading it, but she really didn't see what was so funny.

_It's nothing, sweetheart. I'm just being evil._

That didn't really explain anything.

_Our dear Headmaster is not going to appreciate having Bella Zabini as one of his bosses. He's going to hate it, but there's nothing he can do, and I'm finding that thought more entertaining than I probably should._

Ah, yes, Dumbledore. Hazel remembered Mum still had a thing about Dumbledore. It had come out he had been the one who had sent her to the Dursleys in the first place, ignoring what her parents had wanted, even illegally preventing what exactly they had wanted from becoming public. Mum had said she considered this a serious betrayal of their trust, and that she would almost certainly never forgive him for it. It had been a few years now, and Mum still wasn't showing any signs of letting it go even a little bit. She cared about it a whole hell of a lot more than Hazel did, that's for sure.

_It's not surprising it would bother me more than you. Betrayal is a violation of trust. Since you never knew him, you couldn't have trusted him. I'm the one he betrayed, myself and James and Andi and Ted, not you._

Well, and the whole damn country. Hazel understood this whole national treasure thing was a big deal — if only vaguely, it didn't affect her everyday life much at all. Dumbledore had been entrusted with making sure she was taken care of, and most people would consider leaving her with the Dursleys and never checking up on her a failure to an almost comically horrible degree. She was pretty sure that was what the vote of no confidence had ultimately been about.

_There were other factors at play, but yes, that was the most proximate cause. It wasn't when he was forced to resign as Supreme Consul, but it was certainly one of the straws on the camel's back. Dumbledore is still High Enchanter, but his position is much weaker than it once had been. And, considering his opponents successfully managed to get Bella Zabini of all people on the Board without his supporters somehow blocking her means he's losing his grip on his Headmaster position as well._

Yeah, about that. Mum kept saying this Zabini being there was significant, that she would be very irritating for him, but she hadn't said why.

_Did I never mention that?_

Hazel didn't think she'd ever heard of Zabini before now.

_Oh. Well, they have a history. Zabini is a lilin, you see. They're a kind of non-human being, the details aren't important right now._

Mum didn't directly communicate anything on the topic but, at the very edge of her thoughts, from where her mother lived, Hazel picked up a few indistinct impressions. Unnatural flames in purples and blacks, laughing eyes above sharp smirks, dark feathers braided into hair, breath and teeth and sweat and—

The weight of her mother's mind against hers, always present but light enough she hardly ever noticed it, shifted ever so slightly.  _Sorry. Anyway, there didn't used to be any lilin in Britain — we have a reputation for being less than welcoming to most non-humans, they generally stay away. The Zabinis decided it was time to do something about that, so they picked one of their children to send to Hogwarts, sort of a foot in the door of magical British society. Dumbledore tried to block her admission, and was eventually overruled by the Wizengamot. I'm told he kept a suspicious eye on her the whole time she was there, and that she never forgave him for making her life difficult simply because of what she is._

It's a racism thing, then. Dumbledore was racist against Zabini's people, so she's going to make  _his_  life difficult now because of his being racist to her when she was a kid.

_Not quite the correct word, but close enough._

But, Hazel didn't get it, though. Wasn't Dumbledore supposed to be, well, a good person? All about everyone being made of the same stuff, respecting all life, that sort of thing?

_Conditionally, yes. Dumbledore believes all people will ultimately act in accordance with their nature. Since Dumbledore believes human nature is fundamentally "good" — setting aside for the moment how utterly meaningless that concept is — he expects people to comport themselves ethically, if freely given the chance. However, some non-human beings have a distinctly predatory relationship with humans or other beings. Dumbledore believes they will act in accordance with what he believes their nature to be, which just so happens to make them a potential threat to everyone around them. Lilin are one such species. He tried to keep Zabini out because he believed she posed a potentially deadly threat to the other students, an opinion he was completely open about. He made a lot of political enemies that day, both within Britain and around the world. It looks like it might be coming back to bite him in the arse._

And Mum obviously thought it was funny.

_It's sort of hilarious, actually. These last couple years, people keep beating Dumbledore at his own game. And it's beautiful._

What was his game, anyway? Hazel meant, what was the point? Dumbledore had hid her away with the Dursleys, yes, he'd put one of his followers in the Potter seat, sure. He'd made sure she was named a national treasure, which was such a silly concept but not the point, he'd put her name on every tongue. But why? What was he trying to accomplish?

_I don't know. He's playing a long game, that's for sure, but I don't know what the end goal is. We're going to have to be careful at Hogwarts._

Why? She meant, yes, they were always careful, no one was supposed to know Mum was here, she hadn't forgotten. But, why more careful than normal?

_So far, we've had Dumbledore at a disadvantage. Ted and Andi managed to swipe you out from under his nose, and as long as you're legally their responsibility what he can do regarding you without their permission is limited. But Hogwarts is his realm. While I don't think he really knows every little thing that goes on in that castle, he does seem to come remarkably close. He will have the advantage there, and we will have to be careful not to provoke him too far. A suspicious Dumbledore is not a threat you're prepared to face, not yet._

And it would really be that bad to let him know? About the magic and about Mum, she meant. Hadn't they been friends? Mum had been better at magic when she'd been Hazel's age, and Dumbledore hadn't been suspicious of her. And shouldn't he be happy she wasn't really gone?

 _That's the thing, Hazel: he_ _ **was**_   _suspicious of me. He thought my abilities were unnatural, and vocally disapproved of my study into some of the darker magics. He never came out and said it, but I know he thought I was potentially just as dangerous as any other dark witch. And he wasn't necessarily wrong, if I'm being honest. I was a dark witch, and a rather powerful one, his caution wasn't unreasonable. No, we were allies out of necessity, we certainly weren't friends._

_And then there's the fact Dumbledore has something of an issue with the idea of using magic to cheat death. I have absolutely no idea how he'd react if he knew I was here, but I'm certain it wouldn't be positively. It's too much of a risk._

Wasn't cheating at things basically what magic was for?

_Obviously. Dumbledore disagrees, though._

That was silly. Wasn't Healing also using magic to cheat death? She meant, magic broke things all the time, made them do things they shouldn't. She didn't see why life should be special or anything.

_Yes, well, I think my cynicism might be rubbing off on you. You'll find most people hold certain things sacrosanct, and life is usually one of them. Just one of those normal people things._

Right. Normal people were weird.

Mum didn't argue, the part of Hazel that was her glowing with affectionate amusement.

A couple hours later, the sun now the length of her hand above the horizon, Mum called an end to magic practice, and they turned back to the house. The lights were on, but the air yet still — Dora must still be asleep, that girl had energy and volume enough for a dozen. Hazel slipped up to her room to change into something more appropriate to be out and about in public in. She still found proper robes sort of strange, but the thinner, briefer sort of things girls usually wore in summer were similar enough to normal dresses she barely noticed. Back out in the hall, she paused in front of Dora's room for just a second. Door still closed, not a sound coming from inside. Silly girl, it had to be nearly eight already...

_She's seventeen. I'd be astounded if she were up this early when there's no reason to be._

Ted was making fancy breakfast though! It was Hazel's birthday today, not that they ever really did much for her birthday. They'd tried the first year she was here, but... She didn't know, she just didn't like that sort of fuss being made over her. Ted still used the day as an excuse to make something nice for breakfast, and they'd usually give her something, and a couple times Dora brought her out for ice cream, but that was pretty much it.

This time they would be going out for dinner all special, but it being her birthday was really coincidence — apparently, her acceptance letter for Hogwarts was coming today. It always came on the person's eleventh birthday, she'd been told, the only exception being anyone born between the first of August and the first day of term, all of whom also got theirs on the last day of July. Second years and up got letters too, and those also came the same day, so lots of people got special letters on her birthday. They'd be getting school things in Diagon Alley, for herself and Dora, and they be eating out at the end of the day.

But anyway, the point was, Ted was making special breakfast. He was making extra special special breakfast, since he had to do a work thing today, and he was doing it to make up for missing most of the trip to the Alley, which was apparently a big deal, whatever. Ted's special breakfasts were hardly the same thing twice, but it was always great. Dora being Dora, she'd think she'd think it worth it to get up when there was food involved.

_Breakfast won't be ready for at least an hour._

Dora.

_Well, yeah, okay, good point._

Hazel smirked, turned to wander off for the kitchen.

* * *

Wizarding Britain was different, from what she remembered. And she wasn't certain it was an improvement.

'Stay close, kids,' Andromeda was saying. She was standing at the gateway into the Alley, looking almost intimidating with her conservative dark summer robes and severe features. She might have been expelled from the House of Black, but she still had the face, she still had that way of holding herself all British nobility seemed to, tall and still and casually self-assured. But Lily didn't miss the hint of anxiety in her eyes, the tension in her frame. No different than usual, any time they would be taking Hazel out in public she got a little nervous.

It might be something of an overreaction, but it wasn't from nothing — people did tend to act seriously bloody stupid whenever Hazel was around. And it did rather comfort Lily, the reminder Andromeda was watching.

 _It's silly, what does she think is going to happen? Every damn time, really._  But Hazel didn't voice her exasperation, just gave her a solemn nod.

'Don't worry, Mum.' Dora lifted Hazel's hand she'd taken possession of practically the second they'd got out of the floo, lifting it to shoulder level — she was quite nearly an adult now, in theory, but she'd long made a habit of shifting to match Hazel's height and apparent age whenever they'd be interacting for any length of time. Lily still didn't know what to make of Dora, she was very strange.

_She's nice._

She's weird.

_Yes, obviously, but she's also nice._

Dora moved her other hand, bringing it to softly pat against the back of Hazel's a few times. 'I won't let her out of my sight. I'll keep her out of trouble.'

The slightest hints of a smirk tugged at Andromeda's lips. 'That's not as reassuring as you think it is. You can't even keep yourself out of trouble.'

'It's  _exactly_  as reassuring as I think it is.'

'I would almost think you're trying to drive me mad.'

'Mum, really now, I'm seventeen, and you're my mother. I'm  _supposed_  to drive you mad.'

Andromeda, with nothing but a soft, dignified sigh, turned and started off down the street.

Diagon Alley was different, much different. It was hard to put her finger on exactly what. It still looked more or less the same, the same crooked buildings, structures that could only exist with magic available to support them. The chaos and the noise, a crowd of mages dressed in far too many ridiculous, clashing colours. It didn't look  _too_  different.

It was the little things. It was the greater polish about the place — walls clean, floors swept, shelves fully stocked, staff and patrons neat and well-dressed (by wizarding standards, in any case). It was in the ease with which people stopped to casually chat in the middle of the narrow street, young children running about with only the most token of supervision. Every shop open and active, stalls packing the little available space between. Not a wanted poster or an emergency notice posted by the Ministry in sight.

Neither were there the werewolves who had always lingered at an old pub — even the pub itself was gone, converted into a pet shop. What had once been an enchanting and warding service, owned and managed by an excommunicated goblin calling herself Inkwell was now an expensive-looking clothing store she didn't recognise the name of. An apothecary run by the Mighred, a clan of tree kin, had a different name on the front, presumably owned by someone else now. Even the stand selling papers in front of the  _Herald_  offices, there was a stranger there, the wilderfolk man who'd been there every day Lily had stepped foot in the Alley conspicuously absent.

Even the beggars and the homeless, human ones, they were gone too. The place had been sanitised rather well. Lily hadn't looked into it, but she assumed such a wild change had to have been affected consciously, laws passed and policies formulated to keep away people considered by a certain segment of society to be undesirable.

The implications were rather alarming. Lily had noticed before, each of the few times the Tonkses had brought Hazel out into magical communities — which was rarely, they tried to avoid it. It only seemed to be getting worse. And that did not bode well.

_Why does it bother you so much, anyway? You've never explained._

No, she hadn't — Lily quite intentionally isolated her thoughts on the matter from Hazel. She didn't want her own feelings to prejudice Hazel's own thoughts too much, not to mention there was no point to worrying about it yet. But she did suggest Hazel read up on Grindelwald and the politics of post-revolutionary Europe. It might be enlightening.

_No, not more homework..._

If she were capable of such things anymore, Lily would be smiling.

_Why can't you just let me know these things anyway? You're smart, and your mind is right there, it'd be so easy._

It wasn't always about the destination. Lily might not always be here, so—

_Wait, what? Where are you going to go? I didn't think that was possible._

Well, technically, she  _could_  float about on her own if she really wanted to, but there were risks inherent in that sort of thing, and it was certainly not a long term solution. But, the point was, she didn't intend to hitch a ride on Hazel for the rest of her life. She should be able to make a new body for herself eventually. There was research she'd have to do — they'd be sneaking into the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts library to nick a few books — and she would have to wait for Hazel to build up enough magical resistance whatever ritual they settled on wouldn't incinerate her from the inside out. And, of course, once she didn't have to possess Hazel, it wasn't like she'd be disappearing or anything. They just wouldn't be able to cheat by having Lily download knowledge into Hazel's head anymore. Hazel  _would_  have to learn to figure things out for herself, so they shouldn't get into the habit of Lily doing all her thinking for her.

 _You_ _ **don't**_   _do all my thinking for me. You always refuse to help me on my schoolwork_. This was thought with a sense of frustration, almost petulant, but not with any hope of it doing any good — this wasn't the first time Hazel had complained about it, and Lily had never wavered.

Because, yes, this was exactly why Lily did that. She couldn't do everything for Hazel. For similar reasons, she would have to come up with her own opinions concerning modern magical Britain, Lily wouldn't dictate such things for her.

_Well, fine. Guess I'll be doing some reading, then. Shouldn't be hard, I mean, having you there did kinda boost my reading level ten years in ten seconds._

Yes, there was that. When it came down to it, Hazel had no right to complain — Lily had already helped her cheat plenty. And she was very welcome.

 _Thanks, Mum_. Lily could tell Hazel had intended that thought to be grumbling and sarcastic, but she could feel the smirk twitching at her lips.

For most of the shopping trip, Lily kept herself back, letting Hazel get down to it without imposing too much of a distraction. Not that she was particularly interested in most of this anyway. Maybe it was a consequence of not having her own physical brain — she'd noticed some of her own emotional responses to things could be a bit muted, when she wasn't actively possessing Hazel, that was her theory — maybe it was just another of those ways she'd always been strange, she didn't know. But she'd always found the importance magical families tended to put on those school shopping trips to the Alley, especially the first one, to be a bit...silly. She understood it was one of those rites of passage things, it almost made sense from an academic perspective, but the emotional impact it seemed to have on other people, the personal significance, that just seemed entirely foreign. But, well, she'd accepted she wasn't quite a normal person when she'd been six years old, this wasn't news.

She had to remind herself she  _hadn't_  accepted that when she'd been six years old. She'd never been a six year old girl. That had been the real Lily Evans, which she was not. She still wasn't entirely sure what she was, but she wasn't her, not really, the real Lily was dead. It was hard to remember that sometimes.

Of course, it didn't help that Hazel refused to acknowledge the difference. Hazel was convinced, no matter Lily's own doubts, and sometimes it was so much easier to just go along with it.

So, instead of paying much attention to the trip itself, Lily laid back (figuratively), and stretched outward. She grasped at the surrounding magics, feeling at textures-that-weren't-textures with fingers-that-weren't-fingers. Souls and minds, enchantments and wards, potions and spells of all kinds. Magical communities like this, they weren't only colourful and chaotic when seen with the eyes alone — the place was a mess of thousands of overlapping magics, shifting and vibrating, sparks of disruptive interference jumping back and forth where they touched.

At some point during the trip, Lily added something else to her list of concerning observations: despite the country supposedly being at peace, the wards over the various shops and the Alley as a whole were still at their peak wartime readiness. Since wards this much more powerful required far more intensive upkeep, that had to be a conscious decision. Lily really had to wonder what the hell was going on here.

And that wasn't the only thing she gained to think about today. During the trip, something very strange happened, something subtly alarming. No, she wasn't talking about Hazel's brief meeting with Narcissa's boy — though it did seem he'd turned out to be quite a little shite, unfortunately more his father's son than his mother's, but that really wasn't important. No, of course, it was at Ollivander's, of course it was  _bloody Ollivander_ , that shouldn't be a surprise.

Lily had heard from other people that the eccentric old wandmaker intentionally snuck up on people when they came into his shop. Honestly, she didn't think she could begrudge him that — his job seemed quite tedious, she knew she'd be trying to find something to entertain herself with in his position. But she'd needed other people to tell her this because, when she'd been in to get her wand, Ollivander hadn't surprised her at all: her sensitivity to magic had been acute enough by then to feel him coming long before he could try to jump out and startle her. Her parents had nearly banged their heads on the ceiling, but she hadn't been surprised. And Ollivander had noticed she'd felt him coming, had said something about it, she couldn't remember his exact words. And he'd been intrigued.

Now, Hazel wasn't  _quite_  at Lily's level — she thought her wandless repertoire might be slightly broader than Lily's had been at the same age, but she wasn't quite as sensitive, her own magic interfering with her perception of anything outside herself somewhat. (Lily suspected this was because Hazel was a hair more powerful than Lily had been, but she wasn't certain.) But she knew Ollivander was there, felt him coming in time to look right at him while he still had a couple concealment spells going.

Actually, she wasn't the only one: Dora had turned at almost the same moment. Apparently that summer internship with the Aurors was doing her some good, Lily was almost impressed.

 _You're impressed with Dora's magicky awesomeness and you know it_.

All right, it was possible Dora was not untalented. If she ever took anything seriously for three bloody seconds, Lily might actually admit it some day.

HIs surprise appearance ruined, Ollivander jerked into an awkward conversation, full of reciting wand specs and making characteristically blunt observations. There was a reason he'd been passed over for the Lordship of his House. Anyway, after making Andromeda and Dora uncomfortable for a few moments, Ollivander turned right to Hazel. And he stared at her, for long seconds, silver eyes almost glowing with the intensity of his gaze, his magic shifting and humming about him. Examining her somehow, Lily could feel that, but it wasn't any sort of charm she recognised. Finally, he said only, 'You are not what I expected.'

_What the hell?_

She had no idea.

Hazel just blinked at the disheveled wandmaker for a few seconds, flicking a questioning look at Andromeda before finally answering. 'Er, not sure I should be taking that as a compliment.'

'Whether or not you take it as a compliment is irrelevant, and no concern of mine. It's a fact. Our feelings have no bearing on fact.'

'Erm...'  _No, seriously, what the hell?_

Lily seriously had no idea.

Ollivander twitched, in a wave spreading from the fingers of his left hand across his whole body. Then his face shifted, the light in his eyes dimming, suddenly far more casual, that half-present drifting sort of tone he usually used returning to his voice. 'I know who you are, of course, needn't ask. Elizabeth Hazel Potter, yes. Your father...' Ollivander's eyes narrowed, brightened, for just an instant before again fading. 'Yes, his wand, I remember it well, eleven inches, mahogany and dragon heartstring. Most European wandmakers don't use mahogany, you know,' he said, eyes drifting away, voice going even more absent. 'It's an American wood, you see, only introduced to us a few centuries ago. For that reason, it has a very, how to say it, non-traditionalist reputation over here, but certain American traditions think of mahogany as protective, a shield against disaster.' His eyes turning back to Hazel, voice focusing a bit, 'An interesting contrast, when you think about it, pairing it with dragon, it was an intriguing wand. But then, not surprising it should choose James Potter, he was a deeply conflicted man.'

_He does realise what he's saying, right?_

Maybe? It was hard to tell with Ollivander.

'And your mother's wand, yes, your mother's wand, very curious. Ten and quarter, willow and unicorn hair. The ancients had many stories about willow — the path between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead, they say, is lined with willow and elder. Protective, and yet sinister. Witches bearing wands of willow, delicate and precise, are said to excel with magics dealing with the body and the soul, producing both the greatest of healing spells and the most horrible of curses. Paired with unicorn, an intensely proud creature associated with lunar magics, sentinel in the Darkness, and, well... Yes, curious.'

_That didn't make you sound very nice, did it?_

No. No, it didn't.

_What the hell is going on?_

Yeah, still had no idea.

'But you are not here to listen to me babble about ancient history, no, you are here for your own wand. Your own wand...' Ollivander trailed off, frowning at Hazel. He was doing something, again, Lily could feel that, but she couldn't tell what it was. Tendrils of ephemeral magics, plucking at Hazel, tasting her essence. And with each second, Ollivander's frown only grew deeper. 'Yes, your wand, your wand. Ooh, this is going to be...' His magic lifted away, and he turned half around before freezing again, absently biting at his lip, fingers curling and fluttering about each other at a frenetic pace. 'Yes, ye—  _No_.' He closed his eyes, still for another moment, before sharply nodding. 'Yes, that will do, that will have to do.' And then he was off, darting among the dusty shelves, taking first one box and then another, another, stacking them up in his arms.

At Hazel's shoulder, Dora said in a whisper, 'Er, Mum?'

'Yes, Dora.'

'Is it just me, or has Ollivander gone completely around the bend? I mean, more than usual?'

Andromeda hesitated, just long enough for the pause to be noticeable. 'It does seem that way.'

'And, er, what exactly does Britain do for wands if he loses his few remaining marbles?'

'Quiet, Dora.'

The girl had a point, actually. Did Ollivander have an apprentice yet? Hazel noticed the thought, and asked it out loud for her.

Dora nodded. 'I think so? Zoë Ollivander — she was a Slytherin prefect, the year above me — she said she was going into an apprenticeship with him right away this summer. So, yeah, I think she's around somewhere.'

'Zoë is at home practising her runecraft.' The three of them twitched at Ollivander's sudden reappearance, Dora and Hazel guiltily shuffling in place. 'Her hand is not nearly delicate enough as of yet to start work with wands. However, I should hope I'll be able to delay the inexorable advance of senility long enough to finish training my niece.'

Dora winced. 'Ah, sorry, Master Ollivander, I just, er—'

A hint of laughter pulling at his lined face, wavering on his thin voice, Ollivander said, 'Don't strain yourself too badly, Miss Tonks. How about we return to business, hmm?'

It was, in the end, rather anticlimactic. Ollivander handed Hazel wands, one after the other. All of them had no effect at all — except for one, anyway, which, while showing no external sign, burned Hazel's hand rather badly. After a short break for Andromeda to heal Hazel's hand, and for Lily to restrain herself from reaching out and burning Ollivander back, they moved on again.

It was on the eleventh wand — Lily was counting — that there was finally a positive reaction. But even that left Lily more confused than anything. It was a positive reaction, sure, it just wasn't a very good one. The tip of the wand emitted sparks, a vibrant mix of white and green and purple, but it didn't... She wasn't sure. It just didn't seem like a very...precise reaction. There were sparks, yes, but they were larger and thicker than such things usually were, falling through the air less like natural sparks, but more like leaves, drifting and fluttering with an odd sense of weight. And there was an odd hissing noise as each one burst into existence, so quiet it was barely noticeable, like static in the background of a radio only slightly out of tune. The wand  _was_  a match — by what Lily could feel of the flow of Hazel's magic through the thing, it was certainly useable. It just wasn't a very good one.

By the hesitant, less than ecstatic expression on Ollivander's face, she could tell he was having the same thought. 'Ah, yes. I'm afraid that will have to do.' He shook his head, cleared his throat. 'Ten and half, spruce and unicorn hair. A somewhat volatile pairing, I must admit, but I'm afraid it's the best I can do at the present moment. Return to me, oh, the summer before your fourth year, and we may able to do better.'

Hazel was too busy staring at her new wand, by the feel of it unsure if she should be more thrilled or disappointed, so it was Andromeda who asked. 'Why can't you do better now?'

An uncharacteristically uncertain expression crossing his face — Lily couldn't remember Ollivander ever seeming less than absolutely sure of himself before today — Ollivander hesitated for a few long seconds. 'Everyone's magic is different, you know this. As a consequences, we each need distinct wands to focus our distinct essence. Some people are, well, you may think of them as outliers. Some people are different enough that wands designed to channel the magic of most mages simply cannot tolerate theirs. Your mother,' he said, turning to nod at Hazel, 'was a particularly difficult case herself. You, however...' He shrugged. 'This wand is suitable for you. It is not a perfect match, but it is the best we will be able to do today. Come back when you are fourteen, and we may have more options available to us.'

'How could her age possibly matter?'

A single grey eyebrow ticked up Ollivander's forehead. 'You know as well as any, Mistress Tonks, that a person's magic changes as they age. Some people, their magic changes rather more than others'.' Ollivander turned back to meet Hazel's eyes. His gaze narrowed, as sharp and viscerally intense as it had been when he'd first examined her, as though staring deep inside her, reading the shape of her soul. And he said, slowly, each word careful and heavy, 'Miss Potter has the full of something her mother had only a sliver.' His face faded back to neutral as he turned back to Andromeda, his voice again soft and thin. 'Once she has reached a certain age, this  _something_  will present fully.  _Then_ , there will be options. For now, this is the best I can do.'

'And what is this  _something_?'

'I'm sorry, Mistress Tonks, but, if you don't already know, then I don't believe it's my place to tell you.'

Andromeda stared at him for a few seconds, slowly blinking. 'And you realise I'm her legal guardian.'

'I do apologise.'

Letting out a long sigh, Andromeda's eyes turned up to the ceiling, exasperation clear across every inch of her. 'I hope you don't expect us to pay for a wand you admit she won't be able to use very well or for very long.'

'Ah, well, when you come back in a few years, if you can return it to me in—'

Lily checked out again, not particularly interested in the details of the verbal agreement the two of them were making up as they went along. No, Ollivander had given her far too much else to think about. It wasn't just what he had said, not only that. It was the  _way_  he had said that one bit, staring right at Hazel, looking all too knowing, too frank.

She suspected Ollivander might know she was here. She wasn't at all certain what to do about that. Ollivander was infamously discreet, of course, to the point he even refused to identify the owners of his wands in evidence for the DLE, but...

But leaving that aside. Hazel, he said, had the full of something she'd had only a sliver. Ollivander, clearly, knew what that was, but was refusing to say. Hazel's magic felt slightly unusual, yes, Lily had noticed that, but not... _that_  strange. Not freakishly unnatural, just different. And it really didn't feel that similar to Lily's anyway — if it were, she would think one of those wands Ollivander had picked might have been willow, and none were. It was true children tended to inherit the magical traits of their mother, yes — a consequence of being surrounded by the mother's magic  _in utero_ , the phenomenon was well-documented — so it would be far more likely any magical oddness about Hazel would have come from Lily.

Perhaps... Perhaps Lily had had some kind of genetic magical ability that had never properly presented. That could happen sometimes — these things usually needed to be triggered by some environmental cue, and since she hadn't grown up around magic, it was possible she'd missed the window. That was why there weren't many muggleborn metamorphmagi, or parselmouths, or seers, that kind of thing, it happened.

She couldn't think of what it could be, though. Hazel wasn't a parselmouth, or an omniglot, she knew those for certain. Not a metamorph either. She didn't have any innate self-transfiguration abilities at all, far as she could tell — which had come as a slight surprise, considering her father's heritage, but that could happen. It was possible she could be a seer of some kind, Lily guessed, but she hadn't seen any signs of it. A reasonable guess would be interference from some non-human source, but that was impossible — James had been a pureblood wizard from a Noble House, his ancestry traceable back through  _centuries_ , and Lily was a goddamn muggleborn. Hazel seemed, well, perfectly normal to her. Magically speaking, she meant. She might be a little unusually powerful for a child her age, but Lily had been too.

Maybe that's all it was. Ollivander had said Lily had had it too, but Hazel had far more of it, whatever it was. He had said Lily had been particularly difficult to match to a wand, but Hazel even moreso. Lily herself had noticed Hazel was more powerful than she had been. Maybe that's all it was.

Even as she thought it, she didn't buy it. No, that couldn't be it. A powerful mage didn't have  _different_  magic, they simply channelled more of it at once. Channel enough magic through a wand and it  _could_  be destroyed, but the intensity needed to do such a thing was absolutely ridiculous. It wouldn't be an issue for Hazel, at least not any time soon — certainly not when she was only fourteen! Simply that she was more powerful than most shouldn't have interfered with her being matched to a wand at all.

Lily had no idea what it was. And that worried her. She couldn't account for something when she  _didn't know what it was_. What was it, what, what could Ollivander  _possibly_  know about them that Lily didn't?

Hazel pulled herself away from staring at her wand, enough to stare down at the floor, frowning.  _You really don't know?_

She really, really didn't.

 _Well, I guess..._  Andromeda pulled Hazel into the conversation, getting a long, very detailed string of wand care instructions from Ollivander. (He usually didn't bother, but since she was expected to give it back in a few years, it did make sense.) While listening to Ollivander's ranting, Hazel thought,  _We have a few years to figure it out._

She could feel Hazel's confidence, her absolutely trust in Lily, that she would figure it out, she would take care of it, everything would work out perfectly fine. She prevented her own thoughts from making it back to Hazel.

Her daughter didn't need to know her faith in her only made her more worried than she'd been a second ago.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [those duelling lessons Alastor had given him, what felt like forever ago now] — _It wasn't very clear, and it will come up again later, but I thought I'd clarify, just in case. In the late 1920s, Dumbledore, rather new professor at that point, petitioned the DLE for advanced combat training, the kind civilians don't generally get. Grindelwald's movement was picking up speed over in Saxony, and he was getting a little worried (mostly that he'd have to defend himself from people trying to recruit him, actually). They sent Moody, a HIt Wizard at the time, mostly because he was conveniently on disciplinary probation anyway (he was a bit hot-headed in his youth). They seriously irritated each other at first, but they both grew on each other. They've had an on-again-off-again thing ever since. This is my general headcanon, actually, can be safely assumed to be a thing in everything I write._
> 
> wilderfolk — _As a reminder, the various headcanon races British mages call wilderfolk are beings born of an animagus father and an animal mother (or wilderfolk parents, of course). The reverse is theoretically possible, but unlikely, since shifting carries a virtually 100% risk of miscarriage. They retain the ability to switch between human and animal form, but tend to have personalities far more influenced by their animal heritage, and don't integrate into human society very well or very often. They are considered to be exceedingly rare, but it is very possible there are more of them around than mages realise — they have little interest in participating in greater magical society, so their numbers are likely underestimated._
> 
> [Hazel wasn't a parselmouth] — _Just for the record, Lily isn't mistaken. Hazel isn't a parselmouth in this fic, and neither was Lily. (I clarify because, for those who haven't read my fics, Lily is usually a parselmouth in my headcanon, but this fic is an exception.)_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Yay, time skip! Also, my chronic rambling disease extends into another fic. Nobody should be surprised._
> 
>  
> 
> _Return readers might notice I didn't use thorn and eth in those quotes from the papers. Still headcanon that magical Britain uses them, I'm just too lazy to put them in there every time. So I suppose the people who've complained about that in the past got what they wanted._
> 
>  
> 
> _Next chapter will be going to Hogwarts already. Because, really, we don't need to see several chapters of Lily teaching Hazel wandless magic at a rate of, like, a spell every month or so — wandless magic is **hard**. Accusations that I just don't want to write that pre-Hogwarts shit because I have no idea how to write a functional family of normal people doing normal people things are maybe on to something._
> 
>  
> 
> _Anyway, until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	4. The Potions Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus is not prepared to deal with this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes, this is finally being posted. Woo._

_I still find it hard to believe they made this girl a prefect._

That happened two years ago now. Mum still wasn't over it?

_I'm sorry, but have you seen Dora? I can't imagine what in hell Sprout was thinking._

Hazel didn't see the problem. Dora was nice.

_You know, being nice isn't the sole qualification necessary to be a prefect._

She was in Hufflepuff, though.

_You're being difficult on purpose._

Sort of. She liked Dora, Mum didn't have to be mean to her all the time.

Hazel felt a faint sense of annoyance from that back corner of her mind, but Mum didn't say anything. She was pretty sure that meant she'd won the argument.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was a crowded place, so filled to bursting it was painful. Which Hazel realised was a sort of weird word to use, but it was the one that occurred to her. She never had liked being crowded. Mum had said that was actually an entirely normal thing that entirely normal people could feel sometimes. Apparently, Hazel wasn't an entirely normal person, and some of the things that went on in her head weren't entirely normal — Mum said that was more than fine, to not be an entirely normal person, she hadn't been an entirely normal person herself, but she'd still pointed out that one happened to be a normal thing. Granted, she'd said it during a rant about how irritating people were being just because _oh my god, the Girl-Who-Lived_ , but that wasn't really the point.

Every available square inch of space, it seemed, was filled with luggage, and people, dressed in brightly-coloured and clashing clothes as noisy as their constant chattering, wings against cages and screeching and hooting adding to the racket, an occasional angry hissing from a cat so thoroughly underfoot Hazel never actually managed to catch sight of one. The place was so bright and chaotic it made her eyes hurt, the cacophony so overpowering it felt it as a physical pressure squeezing her skull, the weight of too many bodies too close making her skin itch.

Given all that, she actually didn't mind Dora being Dora at the moment. She meant, she never found Dora being Dora to be nearly as irritating as Mum did, but it was actually rather nice this time. Dora was looking more her age at the moment, that aggressively-adorable puffy-cheeked button-nosed pink-haired version of herself she apparently wore in public a lot. She was changed into her Hogwarts robes already, Hufflepuff prefect badge clearly visible on her chest, thus Mum feeling the need to comment. Since she was looking more her age, that meant she was rather taller than Hazel at the moment. Instead of leading her around by the hand, which she insisted on doing practically any time they were out of the house somewhere, she'd draped her arm behind Hazel's head and down her opposite shoulder. Well, it'd started that way, anyway — at some point, Dora had turned her arm so her elbow was resting lightly on Hazel's shoulder, hand turned up to bury itself in Hazel's hair.

At first, Hazel had found Dora's apparent need to cling at her all the time a bit unnerving. She knew part of it was just because she wasn't, well, used to...hugging...and stuff. She still wasn't, if she was being honest. It had always made her uncomfortable, she couldn't even say why, little sparks of something unpleasant shivering along her back and her arms. She'd put up with it from all the Tonkses, at first just because she felt she should, that this was a thing people did and they obviously wanted to do it for normal people reasons and it wasn't worth messing up their normal people thing because she was slightly mad. But, well, at some point, she'd...gotten used to it? It didn't bother her anymore, at least not with the Tonkses. They were allowed. She didn't mind it.

Not that she understood why Dora did it all the time. Mum said she might be doing it because, what with what had happened with the Dursleys, and Dora knowing about some of it, she was just being... _Overprotective_ wasn't quite the right word. She might not even be entirely conscious of it, Mum said, but the Blacks were a bit famous (infamous?) for their obsessive family-first thing — apparently, they'd once started a war over _just one_ of them being mistreated, long story — and while Dora wasn't a Black Andi had been, so some of the Black mindset might have made its way to Dora, so it was possible at some level she saw Hazel as her sad and broken baby cousin she needed to take care of, and apparently the thing to do about sad and broken baby cousins was lots of hugging.

Mum was very particular that she didn't think Hazel was sad and broken. She didn't even think Dora thought so, at least not consciously. But she thought that might be it, basically, because of the Dursleys, and Dora being Dora.

Normally, Hazel found the whole thing a bit strange. It didn't particularly bother her, not anymore, but she didn't really get it either. But, at this moment, in this context, with the offensive chaos of the crowd on the platform pressing in on her from all directions, feeling her honestly very silly cousin to her left, held close enough against her side walking was a little awkward, her fingers in her hair, gentle and consciously still, so she didn't pull anything, just very conspicuously _there_

Well. She didn't mind it. She thought it might even be making the platform slightly easier to deal with, really.

_All right, all right. I'm sorry, she just bothers me, and it's hard to stop the thought from getting to you all the time. I'll try harder to get over it._

Hazel smiled.

In a few minutes, they'd managed to push their way from the array of fireplaces, still flashing green in a constant rhythm behind them, all the way to the edge of the platform next to the train. And, _wow_ , that was a bright red. With the sun coming through the glass above their heads shining on the polished surface, she found herself blinking, it was bad. Ted, cage holding a rather cranky-looking Olwen tucked under his arm, abruptly stopped. Hazel and Dora nearly ran right into him, Andi the only one quick enough to not make an idiot of herself, sweeping in to a stop next to him so smoothly it might have been choreographed. 'You girls ready?'

Dora let out a mildly annoyed-sounding sigh, but she just said, 'Yes, Dad.' Then, a smirk on her voice, she added, 'Once more unto the breach, and all that.'

_Did Dora just quote Shakespeare?_

Maybe? It wasn't like Hazel was an authority on the subject, how the hell should she know.

_You should read Henry V sometime, it's not bad. Henry IV is better, though._

Yeah, thanks Mum, she'd get right on that. High priority thing, reading Shakespeare.

_I don't think the sarcasm was really necessary._

'I know there's probably no point in asking,' Andi was saying, 'but do you think you could maybe try to delay the first letter I get from Pomona until at least next month?'

'No, you're right, there's no point in asking.'

'Thought so.' A handful of seconds later, Dora's hand had been gently extricated from her hair, stepping aside to continue joking with Ted. Hazel wasn't paying the most attention, because Andi had gotten on one knee in front of her — even with how short Hazel was, that still put her own head slightly over Andi's. Her hands lightly gripping just under Hazel's shoulders, she hesitated a short moment, sharp eyes steady on Hazel's. Finally, 'You'll send Olwen if you need anything?'

Hazel blinked at the burst of conflicting feelings leaking from Mum, too jumbled and too confused for Hazel to really make sense of it. But she couldn't ask about it right now — she was supposed to be talking to Andi here. 'Sure,' she said, nodding.

'I mean it, if you, I don't know...' She trailed off, looking oddly uncomfortable. Oddly, because Andi hardly ever looked uncomfortable. Hazel had no idea how she did that, honestly, when she'd asked she'd only said something about her aunt having had high standards and changed the subject.

'I'll be fine, Andi.'

'Well, yes, I know that.' She said it, easily and smoothly enough, but she didn't look like she entirely believed herself. The uncertainty had been wiped from her face, but she was still hesitating, the faintest hint of anxiety glimmering deep in her eyes. But then the hesitation was over, and Andi had her wrapped up in her arms, saying something about taking care of herself, it was quiet enough Hazel lost the exact words in the noise of the platform.

If the hug were slightly tighter or dragged on slightly longer than usual, well, Hazel didn't draw attention to it.

When she was freed, then Ted was there, easy smirk on his face. Handing over Olwen's cage with one hand, lightly ruffling at her hair with the other, he said, 'Have fun out there, kiddo.'

Hazel just smiled back, somehow managing not to roll her eyes at how Andi immediately set to fixing her hair.

It was another couple minutes and a few more hugs all around before she and Dora managed to escape, Dora dragging her up the first high step onto the train. Thankfully, the walls of the thing did quite a bit to cut off the noise, the sudden absence of sound almost dizzying. Dora started leading her down the hall right away, pushing her along with one hand on her shoulder. 'I was gonna run off to meet a few friends,' she said. 'I was gonna put you in with little Susan, if that's okay.'

'Yeah, that's fine.' More than she had to do, really. Sure, Dora was the only person she really knew on the train, but it wasn't like she needed her to stick around or anything. Susan's aunt had left her at the Tonkses' a few times when she'd been especially busy, so they'd definitely met. She couldn't say she actually _knew_ Susan all that well — girl was ridiculously shy, she could barely talk to Hazel without her face going an uncomfortable-looking shade of red — but she didn't mind the thought of sitting with her for the train ride.

She guessed it was a good thing she didn't mind — Dora only stayed long enough to unshrink Hazel's trunk, float it up to the rack, then tease Susan for a second before disappearing off toward the front of the train. Not that Hazel had expected anything else.

'Hazel? She meant, Hazel Potter?'

She jumped, turned toward one of the other occupants of the compartment she hadn't paid much attention to. She had noticed, somewhat to her surprise, that Susan wasn't alone in here. Susan she recognised, of course, folded into a corner of the compartment, hair an odd mix of red and pink and blonde pulled into a long, meticulous plait, but the other two were new. The girl sitting next to Susan, probably a good head taller and her matching plait a more ordinary flaxen blonde, was probably Hannah — Susan had mentioned her before, but they'd never met. The boy on the opposite bench, wearing what Hazel could tell were rather expensive robes, evenly parted hair a brighter yellower blond, was entirely unfamiliar. And also happened to be the one talking at her. 'Er, yes?'

'Ernie MacMillan. Did you want to put your owl up?' he said, starting to rearrange his limbs, clearly moving to stand. 'I could—'

'No, that's fine.' She realised she was pretty short, but honestly. 'I was just gonna...' Carefully balancing the cage under one arm, she clumsily picked at the latch with one hand. After far more fumbling than she'd expected — she'd almost given up and just charmed it open but, no, she wasn't supposed to let people see her do that — she finally had the door swinging out. Olwen was climbing up her arm toward her shoulder a moment later, Hazel had to stagger a foot out to stop herself from falling over. It was still a bit surprising just how huge Olwen was, it was a bit awkward to have her climbing all over her, but, really, that just made Hazel less comfortable keeping her locked up in a little cage.

It was possible the thought reminded her of a certain cupboard under the stairs. Which was unpleasant, she tried to avoid remembering anything about back then.

A moment to fling the empty cage up onto the rack, and Hazel carefully sunk down to sit next to who was probably, 'Hannah, right?'

The girl nodded. 'Your owl's beautiful, what's his name?'

Hazel couldn't help a little smile at Olwen's reaction. Mum had commented more than once Olwen's behaviour was a little strange — she meant, not quite expected of an ordinary post owl. The thing that was relevant at this particular moment, Olwen seemed to understand spoken English perfectly fine. With the first half of what Hannah said, Olwen puffed up a bit, looking as proud and dignified as an owl perched on Hazel's shoulder possibly could.

And, really, Hazel didn't fault Olwen her pride — she _was_ a very pretty bird. When Ted, finally showing up a couple hours in to the shopping trip, had dragged the family into the dark, smelly store, Hazel had spotted her almost immediately, the brilliant white of her feathers making a sharp contrast with her surroundings. While the other owls made an unholy bloody racket, hooting and screeching and rattling their cages, Olwen had just sat and stared, calm and quiet, bright yellow eyes watching them with uncanny intelligence. Dora had said she was creepy as hell, but it had only taken a few seconds with Olwen perched on her shoulder and already fussing at her hair for Hazel to decide she wouldn't be accepting any other owl. She had been a more solid white at the time, but tiny little spots of pitch black had been slowly filling out over the last month, making the white seem all the brighter. Feathers soft and smooth and vibrant, Olwen was a pretty bird, and she knew it.

But, she apparently understood English well enough to catch the use of _his_ a second later. Olwen turned to face Hannah, and while she couldn't see it from this angle, judging by the wide-eyed look of surprise on Hannah's face she must be getting quite the bird-glare. Olwen did have a pretty intense glare, Hazel had been on the wrong end of it before. Not even bothering to hide her amusement, Hazel said, ' _Her_ name is Olwen.'

'Ah, yes, er...' Hannah hesitated, frowning up at the offended owl. 'My mistake. Sorry?'

Olwen let out a little birdy huff, a twitch of a shrug sending feathers fluttering. But she turned away from Hannah again, shifting herself on Hazel's shoulder — she winced at the pinching of claws — apparently satisfied.

_You seem to attract the unusual. I doubt you'll ever be able to go very long without Dora hovering, and, I swear, there is something about this bird._

Not to mention she had the disembodied voice of her dead mother in her head. That wasn't exactly normal either.

Now that avian egos had been sufficiently appeased, conversation started up easily enough. Not that Hazel was entirely pleased with it. As usually happened whenever Hazel had to talk with anyone whose last name wasn't Tonks, they seemingly felt the need to make everything about her. Might as well be an interview, really — Hannah and Ernie kept asking her things, what she liked to do (she lied, made up something about reading fiction), if she'd gone to school or been homeschooled, if she could do any magic (she lied again, people weren't supposed to know about that). The last one came as a bit of a surprise, they were apparently operating under the assumption Dumbledore had been arranging special magic lessons or something.

They were doubly surprised when she referred to Dumbledore as "that creepy old man". Susan smiled, at least, Hazel remembered her aunt didn't like him either.

Even when they moved on to other things, about the time the platform outside the windows jerked into motion, they kept asking her opinion on things way more often than she thought was entirely necessary. Especially since they tended to be things she didn't have opinions on — society people she'd never met, musical artists she'd never heard, quidditch, fashion, blah blah blah. It was rather irritating.

Susan, at least, realised it was irritating. She kept wincing, looking increasingly mortified as the minutes dragged on, shooting Hazel the occasional apologetic look. Because Susan was the only one here who'd actually met her before, and was apparently the only one perceptive enough to catch how bored and annoyed she was. It was fine, it wasn't that bad, and she was sure they'd pick up on it and stop.

Eventually. Hopefully.

Really, when someone slid the door open hard enough it spanged against the end of the track, it came as rather a relief. 'Have any of you seen a toad? Only, Neville here's lost one.'

 _Oh my god, Neville. I almost forgot about Neville_.

Hazel blinked to herself, half-disoriented by another flood of jumbled feelings from Mum, half-distracted by the light-speed ramble the buck-toothed, frizzy-haired girl standing in the doorway had launched into in response to...honestly, Hazel couldn't even remember, some idle comment from someone else in the compartment. Neville had to be the dark-haired, round-faced boy standing all crumpled and shy in her shadow, but that didn't really explain who Neville was.

_Neville Longbottom. Alice's boy, she made me his nodhxam._

Hazel recognised Alice as the name of Mum's best girl friend, and a nodhxam as a mage thing that was more or less interchangeable with a godmother. Not quite the same, but close enough. Alice was actually Hazel's nodhxam, she knew, but she was apparently locked up in a hospital somewhere, so it hadn't mattered. Though, she still wasn't sure what the point was.

_I'm his nodhxam, Hazel. If we could help him, I'd appreciate it._

Oh, well, okay. Mum just had to ask. 'Have you checked with the prefects, up in front? They would know tracking and summoning charms that could do the trick.'

The girl — Hazel hadn't caught her name — crossed her arms over her chest, face scrunching into a rather impressive pout. 'They didn't help. They said they had better things to do, we could figure it out ourselves.'

Hazel frowned to herself. She found that rather hard to believe. Dora should be up there, and she would think Dora at least would be willing to help them. Especially since it would take barely any real effort. Especially since this _was_ Neville Longbottom — his parents had been Aurors, Dora had a thing about Aurors. She couldn't imagine what could be going on with her that—

Oh. Oh, she got it. Sighing a little, Hazel pushed herself up to her feet, Olwen fluttering up to settle on the luggage rage with a chuff of annoyance. 'Follow me.'

It ended up being a rather aggravating adventure. Mostly, if she were being honest, due to Hermione Granger's mouth constantly running off. It was a good thing Hazel didn't particularly want to comment on much of anything, because if she had she wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise. Holy shite, the girl could talk. In retrospect, actually answering the question about who she was had been a huge mistake, because Hermione hadn't shut the hell up about books she had read which Hazel was in since. And then about other books. And things that were in those books. And then implications about what books talked about and what they didn't, how the treatments of the same subjects varied author to author. And on. And on. And on.

_So, this is what it looks like from the outside._

What?

_Nothing, never mind._

Starting at the prefect's compartment in the front, Hazel went down the train, peaking in each compartment as they passed, checking each bathroom. It didn't take very long to find a bathroom that was shut and locked. Hazel knocked, yelling for Dora. The door swung open a few seconds later.

Not entirely to her surprise, Dora's hair was ruffled, her robes noticeably askew. Also not entirely to her surprise, she wasn't alone in the bathroom. She was actually a little surprised to find just how much she wasn't alone — Hazel counted two boys and two other girls crammed into the little available space, all in various states of dishevelment and undress, one of the girls hugging a discarded robe to her bare chest, face going quite red — but when it came down to it, she didn't really care what Dora got up to.

Hermione cared, certainly. That Hazel had made out three prefect's badges from two different houses in her quick glance around the little room probably didn't help. She immediately started in on a different rant, this one about proper behaviour and their responsibility to— Blah blah, Hazel wasn't really listening. She grabbed Neville by the arm and shoved him at Dora, said _Longbottom_ had lost his toad, Dora should do something about that. She waited only long enough for Dora to agree to help before turning on her heel and walking off.

_Okay, this is the last time, I swear._

Last time what?

_Dora **really** doesn't bother you? I mean, what we just walked in on doesn't make you even the slightest bit uncomfortable?_

No. Should it?

Since Mum couldn't seem to come up with a coherent response to that, Hazel could only assume the correct answer was _no_.

Hazel had thought that would be it for her little excursion out of the compartment. Really, she should have expected she wouldn't be able to get back unmolested. She was just walking into one of the tiny rooms between cars, mostly closed in but still far more rattly and windy than the proper ones, when the opposite door clicked open. She frowned when she recognised the boy walking into the little room. One of the boys, anyway — he had two overgrown lumps following him who were new. 'Hello there, Draco.'

The boy tensed slightly, his unsettlingly familiar sharp face crossed with a faint frown. (She could believe Andi and his mother were sisters, ignore the silver-blonde hair and they looked passably alike.) Then, with what looked like agonising effort, he forced himself to relax. Hazel realised she might have antagonised him a little with the use of his first name, but she really didn't give a damn. Pureblood etiquette was just so silly. 'Miss Potter.' He said it with slightly more weight than usual, especially on the title, as though trying to stress she should be all proper.

But, no, she wouldn't be doing that. 'You three mind clearing the door? I was meaning to go that way.'

_Goyle and Crabbe._

What now?

_Their surnames. The bigger boys shadowing him._

How the hell did she know that?

_They look like their fathers. Both Death Eaters — pretty sure I nearly killed Goyle once._

Oh, well, she wasn't really surprised Draco had other Death Eaters' kids following him around, come to think of it. His father being a big fish and all.

But anyway, Draco was gathering himself, clearly again forcing himself not to yell at her against all of his instincts. Looked uncomfortable. 'If I could have a moment, Miss Potter, I was actually looking for you.'

Hazel put it together instantly. After their first rather disastrous meeting that day in Diagon Alley, Mum had told her a bit about him. Or about his parents, at least. His father she'd only known by reputation, but she and his mother, Andi's younger sister, had been...well, "friends" wasn't quite the right word. She'd known her, anyway. Known her well enough Hazel could guess with reasonable certainty that, 'Your mother told you to apologise, didn't she.'

Draco's face noticeably pinked, curling into a narrow frown. Got it in one. 'What would you know about it, Potter?'

'Andi does talk about her sisters from time to time.' Which was a total lie, Andi hardly ever even mentioned them, but it was a more believable thing to say than _my mum knew your mum_. 'I guessed.'

The frown grew a few shades deeper. 'My mother has no sisters.'

Hazel shrugged. 'That's funny. Last I checked she had two. Andromeda? Bellatrix? Ringing any bells?'

_Are you annoying him on purpose?_

A little bit. He's a prat.

_You realise Narcissa telling him to apologise to you is her way of indirectly apologising to Andromeda._

Yes. And Hazel would write to Andi that Draco had tried to apologise, and considering how insincere it was it had to have been at his mother's orders. But he's still a prat.

But anyway, Draco was still posturing at her. She couldn't think of what else to call it. It wasn't really conversation, whenever he opened his mouth it felt so put-upon to her. Scripted, a pre-arranged performance he was acting out. It was boring. 'I would be more mindful if I were you, _Miss Potter_. I might almost think you are trying to irritate me.'

So, yes, she was poking at him a bit on purpose. It was just so boring, she didn't think she could be blamed for finding some way to entertain herself. 'Really now, Draco. If I were _trying_ to irritate you, you would know.'

 _'Miss_ Potter—'

'Again with that,' Hazel said. He twitched a bit at her talking over him, she couldn't hold back a smirk. 'Do you think you're subtle with that? Trying to hint I should observe the proprieties, it's not like I'm _missing_ it, really. And anyway, if we _are_ going to be being all proper, you're doing it wrong. It should be _Lady_ Potter, in point of fact.'

Draco's face could no longer be described as pink. It was making its way well into red by now. Hands clenched into fists, shoulders rising, voice shifting into what passed for a snarl for such a slight little boy, 'I will not be _lectured_ at by a jumped-up little—'

'Careful there, Mister Malfoy.' The more proper address cut him off in mid-sentence, blinking a little in clear confusion. She felt her own smirk twitch wider. 'I might almost think the Noble House of Malfoy means to insult the Noble House of Potter. You should really consult Lord Malfoy before you say anything you can't take back.'

_Okay, I've changed my mind. That was funny. Just ignore me and say what you want from now on._

Thanks.

More importantly, the sudden turnaround put Draco off-balance enough she could slip past him and between Goyle and Crabbe out the door. She was still smiling when she finally made it back to her compartment.

_Of course, you realise this means you're almost certainly going to Gryffindor._

Hazel was thinking Hufflepuff, actually.

_Oh god, don't even joke about that..._

* * *

_Is that Sev? What the hell is he doing here?_

Who the hell was Sev?

_At the table in front, next to the bloke in the purple turban._

Hazel, who had been examining the ceiling — she could tell there _was_ a ceiling there from vague distortions giving away the shape of it, but it somehow looked like there wasn't a ceiling at all, the last traces of sunlight setting one face of each cloud afire, it was neat — looked down into the sparkly, gleaming granite chamber. It didn't take her long to spot who had to be the person Mum was talking about, at a table seating a string of adults who were presumably the professors: he was a scrawny, narrow-faced man, with lank black hair and an overlarge, curved nose. Judging by the lowly simmering glare he had turned out to the chattering body of students, he wasn't at all pleased to be here. That was Sev, apparently. Which might mean something to Hazel, if she had any idea who Sev was.

_Severus Snape. He was my best friend when I was your age. When I was every age, actually._

Hazel blinked. Oh. Okay?

_I'm just surprised. No clue why he's here._

Didn't Dora complain about a Professor Snape? Like, maybe a billion times?

_She did, but, well, I just thought it had to be a different Snape. His father was a muggle, so I'll admit it wasn't likely, but there could be other magical Snapes out there, it's not impossible. But it was **Sev**? They have Sev teaching Potions? Who the fuck thought **that** was a good idea?_

The column of first years filing into the Hall came to a halt, fidgeting between the tables of older students. Most of them were fidgeting, anyway, Hazel was distracted at the moment. She noticed McGonagall reappear with the Sorting Hat, Mum had mentioned that, but she tuned it out, her name wouldn't be called for a while. But yeah, was there a problem with him teaching Potions? If he was Mum's friend...

_That's not what I mean. It's just—_

_You know how I am with Charms, right? I'm sure I told you about this. How the subject always came easy to me, I barely had to study. That I just **get** Charms, without really having to think about it._

Mum might have mentioned it. A few times. Whenever Hazel complained about how terrible her explanations were about how various charms worked — which, admittedly, wasn't very often, Hazel could usually figure them out.

 _Yeah, I think you inherited a bit of it. Anyway, Sev is the same way I am with Charms, but with Potions. He would only half pay attention to instructions, and it'd come out perfect every time. Hell, tell him what a potion is supposed to do, and what components it uses, and nine times out of ten he'll be able to figure it out without any instructions at all. He doesn't have to think about it, it's intuitive to him_.

And that was a problem—? Hazel winced when the Hat split open and started singing. Because of course the bloody thing was tone deaf.

_It's a problem because Sev doesn't understand how people could **not** get potions. That sort of genius makes a shite teacher. Not to mention he has zero tolerance for stupidity. And he hated children even when he was one. Yeah, I have no fucking clue what Dumbledore was thinking hiring him. Terrible idea._

Yeah, sounded like it.

_If the Professor Snape Dora was talking about really **is** Sev, we may have to have a chat with him. Depending on how the next few days go._

"We"? She meant...

_Yeah._

Well. That should be interesting.

Hazel was coming to an odd conclusion about most things to do with magical...stuff. When it came down to it? A lot of the shite they cared about was boring. Quidditch? Boring. All their stuff with their Houses and proper rules of etiquette and all? Boring. What she'd gathered from Mum about how magic was generally taught, or even done for that matter? Boring. All of it was just...boring. Even most of their entertainment she'd seen was even boring! She'd been to a couple plays, and read a few mage-written books, and they _really_ weren't that good. It was kinda sad, really.

The point was, it had only taken a couple names for Hazel to come to the conclusion this Sorting business was really quite boring. They made this big production out of it, it was all she'd heard about for long sections of the train ride, even from the Tonkses the last few days, and it was just... She didn't understand how people could get so worked up about this. Standing here and watching someone put on a ratty old sentient hat until it shouted out a silly-sounding name. It was just so very dull.

And yes, Mum didn't have to say it — she realised her opinion could well be just because she was a bit strange sometimes, emotionally. That didn't stop her from being bored. She would really like for this to be over so she could eat, and just get on with it.

By the time her name was called — as "Potter, Elizabeth" of course, which still sounded slightly strange — she was getting a bit annoyed. The wave of whispers raised by the sound of her name didn't make her feel any better. Seriously, people were so damn stupid about the Girl-Who-Lived thing. She made her way up to the front of the room, trying to keep her irritation off her face as much as humanly possible, and sat patiently for McGonagall to put the silly thing on her head.

The magic hit harsh and unevenly. Her body froze in place, her vision blurring, a flash of itching racing across her skin, a pounding starting from her teeth and working up into her skull. She knew by Mum's mental wince that that wasn't _supposed_ to happen, but she guessed having two brains in the space of one had messed the Hat up a little.

 _Oh, my._ Now, if Hazel hadn't long grown used to Mum being in here, she'd probably find the sudden appearance of an unfamiliar voice speaking into her own thoughts rather unnerving. _Hello there, Miss Evans. Potter, I mean. I see reports of your demise were only somewhat exaggerated._

_Yes, hello, I'm still alive. Sort of. Could we get on with it? You're giving Hazel a headache._

_Ah, I see that. Sorry about that, Miss Potter — turns out standard mind magic isn't all that efficient at interfacing with two minds in the same body. I would say I would work on that, but I can't imagine it ever being relevant again._

That's fine. Just get it over with, then.

_Right. Slytherin it is._

_Wait, what? Are you just fucking with us?_

_I don't fuck at all, I'll have you know. Missing certain required peripheries._

_You did actually look?_

_I can examine a mind quite thoroughly quite quickly. Practice makes perfect._

_And you didn't mix her up with me?_

_No, no, not at all. I still think Slytherin would have been best for you, though the political situation at the time made it unwise. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were both good substitutes. For your daughter, on the other hand, my first choice would be Slytherin, and my second would be Hufflepuff._

_And you're sure you're not fucking with me?_

_Quite sure._

_Seriously, though. Slytherin? Did you see that conversation she had with Malfoy not three hours ago?_

_I did, in fact. I'm surprised you were right there in her head for the whole thing, and you didn't see it._

_She just comes off Gryffindor-ish to me. Maybe Ravenclaw. She has no patience for Slytherin mind games, she would hate it there._

_No patience for them, perhaps. But that doesn't mean she doesn't have a talent for them. That doesn't mean she couldn't potentially enjoy such things if she had a good enough reason for doing it. Just for its own sake? No, of course not. But she doesn't like doing much of anything for its own sake, does she?_

_That was a dig at my suggestion of Ravenclaw, wasn't it?_

_Indeed it was. She may be quite dedicated in her magical studies, yes — quite impressive by the way, Miss Potter — but they have always been a means to an end. You even said it yourself, the first time you ever communicated. I see you remember her exact words, Miss Potter. If you would?_

They knew this was getting really confusing, right, two voices arguing in her head at once.

_I do realise that, Miss Potter, and I do apologise. Help this along, if you would?_

All right. Hazel was magic, and with a little bit of time and a little bit of work she could learn to use it. And with more time, and a lot more work, she could become good enough at it that nobody would be able to hurt her ever again. That's what she'd said.

_You still remember that?_

Of course she did. That was an important day, she remembered most of what Mum had said to her.

_This heartwarming moment aside, it is undeniable Hazel exemplifies many of the traits Slytherin house prizes most highly. Falling a little short in some of them, but nobody is a perfect Sort, that's to be expected. I would suggest Hufflepuff second, but while Hazel is certainly a loyal, hard-working sort, her loyalty is hard to earn, and the pursuits she will put such effort into are limited._

Not to mention "fairness" was a meaningless concept.

_That too._

_You were just messing with me when you said you thought you were going into Hufflepuff, weren't you._

Yes. Hazel had suspected the Hat would send her to Slytherin, actually.

_How did I not see that?_

What, Mum thought Hazel would never pick up any mind magic after feeling her block things off almost constantly for years? Come on.

_You hardly ever do, though._

Well, she hardly ever saw the point in it. Most of the time, she really didn't care if Mum saw everything going on in her head. If she was messing with her, fine, but otherwise it wasn't worth the effort.

_Which I believe segues nicely straight back to my point. Here you are, saying yourself that you need a good reason to do something. Rather an ill fit for any of their other houses with their more rigid principles, wouldn't you say? What is the value in virtue, when it serves no cause? What is the value in loyalty, when no one has done anything to deserve your regard? What is the value in knowledge when it serves no purpose, a key without a lock?_

Hey, Hazel was on board. She wasn't the one arguing.

_Yes, fine, I see your point. And you're not concerned? As I recall, you ended up not sending me to Slytherin, despite saying it was the house I was most suited to._

_True. But while many of the children in Slytherin these days are quite radicalised, they are not so near the edge of violence as they were then. It may be an uphill battle for you to earn respect from your housemates, Miss Potter, but you will face the same struggle no matter which house I send you to. Only the details differ. Slytherin's game you stand the best chance of winning._

Were they done, then? This headache wasn't getting any better.

_With your permission, my lady._

_Yes, yes, get it over with._

* * *

It's rather nice, actually.

_I always liked it._

Just, the way people always talked about Slytherins, Hazel had been half-expecting some dank, dirty hole in the ground. She was pleasantly surprised.

_Well, Sev snuck me in here the first week of class, and I'd barely heard the word Slytherin before starting here. So I can't say I was surprised. But, yeah, it's not bad._

She hadn't seen a whole lot of the Slytherin dorms yet, of course — she and the other first years had just been led into the common room, she'd only had a moment to look around. But it wasn't bad. It _was_ underground, but the ceiling was high enough, the walls far enough apart it wasn't making her uncomfortable. The floor and walls were hard granite, but they were covered in carpets and rugs and paintings and tapestries, she could hardly even see stone anywhere. Couches and chairs in greens and blacks scattered about, little tables waiting between them. On the side wall, one enormous fireplace and then a second, both mirrored on the opposite end, all four bearing low fires moodily crackling. The far wall appeared to be glass, apparently facing out somewhere under the surface of the lake — it was hard to tell at the moment, since it was pretty much a solid black, but Mum had said so when she'd noticed it.

Not that the place was wanting for light. There were the fires, of course, those magical lamps Hazel had seen a couple other places arrayed thickly enough on the walls the room was suffused with a pale, warm light. Pretty much anything that wasn't stone, wood, or cloth seemed to be silver — accents on the hearths, random edges on tables and frames, bands of it twirling up the occasional thin column standing here and there, dimly glimmering against the otherwise dark colour scheme. It was nice.

Personally, she'd prefer not being stuck underground. She never did like basements, just made her subtly anxious, she couldn't say why. But this wasn't bad. She could deal with it.

_The cupboard. That's why._

That... _could_ be it, she guessed. Hazel didn't think so, but. She meant, it wasn't like the cupboard had been underground.

_True. I still think that's it._

Whatever. The exact reason didn't really matter anyway.

The first years stood waiting in the room for a couple moments, fidgeting in near silence, held under the watchful eyes of seven older students. Six of them had green and silver prefect's badges on their chests, but one girl had what Mum said was the Head Girl's badge instead. Mum had been slightly surprised to see that — apparently, the Headmaster chose the Head Boy and Girl, and he hadn't picked a Slytherin the whole seven years she'd been here.

Hazel had noticed she was getting looks. (Draco in particular kept turning to glare at her, still not over it, apparently.) But, well, she always got looks whenever she was in public. Nothing new, that.

After a few short moments — long enough for the first years to stew a little, not long enough for the tension of the moment to entirely dissipate — a door Hazel hadn't noticed set into the left side wall swung open. And the man Mum insisted on referring to as "Sev" glided into the room, black robes drifting behind him like an unnaturally heavy shadow. Hazel noticed the seven older students straighten a bit, their low whispers abruptly cutting off. He came to a stop slightly further than a comfortable distance from the pack of first years, and for a second he simply stared down at them, pale face entirely empty of any expression, almost bored, black eyes still and sharp.

After a short pause, filled with more near-silent fidgeting from the first years around her, he reached into a pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper. Voice smooth and even, exactly loud enough to be comfortably heard in the cavernous room, he read, 'House Bulstrode, Millicent.'

'Here, sir.' Hazel glanced toward the voice to find a dark-haired girl, somewhat taller than herself, meekly half-raising a hand.

Sev didn't say another word, didn't move, just stared at the girl. For long, awkward seconds, nothing happened. Then he nodded, the motion so slight Hazel barely noticed it, and glanced at the paper again. 'House Crabbe, Vincent.'

What was going on?

_I think he's searing everyone's faces to their names. Advanced mind magic trick, it's complicated._

'House Davis, Tracey.'

Why would he—

_Wait, what? Davis? Could you find her quick?_

Hazel blinked, but just shrugged it off. She'd missed the girl's response, but it wasn't hard to follow Sev's intense staring. Little thing, maybe even shorter than Hazel, with odd grey eyes and solid black hair in a tight plait down her back. What about her?

_I knew her parents, is all. Her father, Terry, was a good friend of mine. He died in the war._

Oh, well. Okay then.

_Also, her being here means you're not the only halfblood in your year in Slytherin. Her mother's name is Stacey, she was a muggleborn, a few years older than me. I introduced them, actually, sort of by accident._

How do you sort of accidentally set a couple up with each other?

_By not meaning to set them up with each other. I was meeting a few friends in London one summer, and I bumped into Stacey by chance. She'd just graduated, and I was still worried what I was going to do after school. Not easy sometimes, being a muggleborn in Britain. So, we were talking, and she ended up following me to where we were meeting for lunch. She didn't have anything better to do, so she stayed. Terry asked her on their first date a week later._

Huh. Was there anyone in the room whose parents Mum _hadn't_ known?

_Can't say. I don't know names._

'House Parkinson, Pansy.'

_There's one. Well, actually, I suppose it's possible I might have known her mother, but I didn't know any Parkinsons._

Only most of them, then.

_Hey, magical Britain's a small place._

Hazel was starting to get that.

Sev got through the last few names, though it was slightly odd. He'd spent way less time on 'House Potter, Elizabeth' than he had everyone else, barely glancing at her before moving on. But then, Hazel did supposedly look quite a bit like Mum — he probably didn't need to sear her face to her name, whatever that meant. The last two were just said slightly weird. She vaguely remembered McGonagall had called 'House Tugwood, Olivie Rivers' and 'Clan Değsut, Blaise Zabini' by just those two names at the end, she didn't know what was up with that. Or why Blaise got Clan instead of House.

_Someone's surname isn't necessarily the same as the House they're officially a member of. House Tugwood is very large, different families use different surnames. And Zabini's a lilin — they still use the word clan. Technically, he'd be a member of the House of Zabini, who together are members of Clan Değsut, but I think Değsut is the only clan that's divided like that._

Just the one clan, in the whole civilisation?

_Well, yes. Değsut is their royal family, and they've been around for a very long time. And I mean a **very** long time — a couple thousand years, at least. It's been split into smaller households many times._

Woah, woah, woah. _Royal family?_ The Zabinis were royalty?

_Technically, yes, to the lilin and veela, but you knew that already. Why did you think they call his great-aunt the Princess Zabini?_

Oh. Well. Huh.

And then the recitation of names and memorising of faces was done. Sev slipped the paper back in his pocket, then passed another moment simply staring at them as a group, face still blank and eyes still sharp enough to almost cut. Finally, he spoke, still in that smooth tone barely above a whisper. 'Welcome to Hogwarts.

'There is a little-known technicality, a half-forgotten piece of history concerning the section of the student body named for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin. In the fourteenth century, shortly after an early iteration of the Sorting was formalised, the House of Slytherin entered into a contract with Hogwarts. It was not a simple agreement by any means, but one thing is relevant for our purposes today: any child Sorted into Slytherin was to be considered ancillary members of the House proper for the duration of their schooling. Since the House of Slytherin was declared extinct in the seventeenth century, this is all that remains. While you are within these walls, you are all one House, and I am your Lord. I expect you to act like it.'

The last was said slower, heavier, the weight of each syllable feeling somehow dangerous. His eyes had gone narrower, reminding Hazel of nothing but one of Andi's better glares, slowly turning from one student to the next, forcing the half-spoken threat into their skulls with the force of his gaze alone. (He skipped Hazel, though, for some reason.) She noticed a few of the other first years looked a bit bemused, throwing each other quick looks of confusion, a couple of them even offended — one particularly mortified-looking girl was throwing Hazel and Tracey both disgusted glances between disbelieving stares up at Sev. Hazel wasn't entirely sure what they were all getting worked up about, but the older students just seemed bored, so they'd likely been given the same little speech at some point.

Was that true, by the way? The bit about the House of Slytherin.

_No idea, but it is possible. I know Hufflepuff did the same thing, they were very involved about it back when the Noble House was still around. The school itself has full custody of any unattached students, no matter where they're Sorted. So, yes, it's possible._

'That is my primary office in this building,' Sev said, with a nod toward the door to the left he'd entered through. 'Assuming I am not occupied brewing elsewhere, I can be found there from the end of classes in the afternoon until around midnight. The door will be unlocked, and any of you who may feel the need to meet with me are free to knock. Though, I warn you—'

A few spines straightened as Sev's face narrowed again into an even harder glare, voice low and cold and deadly. '— _do not waste my time_. As you might expect, I am a very busy man. Leaving aside testing student potion samples and marking essays and exams, I find myself meeting with representatives from the Board of Governors or the Department of Education almost weekly. I conduct a not insignificant volume of original research and development. I am an editor with two scholarly journals, and review for four more. This school keeps a small parliament of owls simply to accommodate my correspondence with Masters of Potions, the Dark Arts, and Healing the world over. The demands on my attention are numerous, and if you distract me with something trivial I will _not_ be pleased.

'In cases that do not require my direct involvement, turn to your prefects. Fifth years, Gemma Farley and Charles Urquhart.' A pair of the older students nodded, the other two pairs following as Sev went on. 'Sixth years, Caron Selwyn and Elisedh Smethwyck. Seventh years, Deirdre MacCormaic and Cassius Vane. And, this year's Head Girl, Aemilia Scrimgeour.'

_Ah, yes, Scrimgeour. That makes sense now._

What made sense now?

_That Dumbledore would pick a Slytherin Head Girl. Most living members of House Scrimgeour went to Slytherin, but they've long been involved with and loyal to the Ministry. Not just grunts, either — if I'm guessing who her parents are correctly, her grandmother was Director of Law Enforcement, and her uncle is currently Chief Auror. They're one of the few solidly Slytherin families Dumbledore has anything close to a decent relationship with._

Why did that matter?

_He's not going to make a Slytherin he doesn't trust Head Girl, now, is he?_

He made Mum Head Girl. He didn't trust Mum, she'd said.

_I wasn't a Slytherin._

So this Sorting shite actually mattered, then.

_To some people, yes._

That's stupid.

_I'm not particularly inclined to disagree. But, in my case, I suppose it doesn't help I was actually sent to the Hat's **third** choice for me, due to stupid political nonsense. It seemed arbitrary and pointless to me from the beginning._

It was arbitrary and pointless.

_This conversation isn't going anywhere._

Sev had been talking through their conversation not going anywhere, but Hazel had missed most of it. Something about the prefects being able to determine if something were important enough to bother him if they weren't sure, blah blah. Now he was talking about meetings they'd be having — apparently, starting in October, he had short meetings with all of the first years, one by one. With all the Slytherins, apparently, though at different times, and the first years actually got two, one near the end of the year.

_Well, that's interesting._

What? Did heads of house not usually do that?

_The Gryffindors all had a meeting with McGonagall toward the end of fifth year. Which was pointless — it was supposed to be advice on which NEWT classes to take to best prepare for whatever career you were looking into, but I noticed at the time it didn't necessarily help, since which NEWT classes you could take in sixth year depends on which OWL classes you'd picked in the last week of second year._

Huh. So they didn't have a meeting in second year, to tell them that?

_I was told the other three did. Slughorn and Flitwick met with all their students near the end of second and seventh year. Sprout apparently has meetings constantly, I don't know how the schedule works. Only McGonagall had the one meeting in fifth year. My Ravenclaw and Slytherin friends were surprised, actually, that we didn't get a talk with McGonagall about electives._

So what things Mum would have been able to do were fucked up because McGonagall was lazy.

_I don't know about lazy — she is very busy, she might just not have time. And it didn't affect me, I took Arithmancy and Runes anyway. But it did screw a some of my classmates a bit, a few complained about it once they'd found out. Not a lot, most have families who would catch that sort of thing._

But didn't Gryffindor have more muggleborns than anywhere else?

_Hufflepuff, actually. But Gryffindor is a close second._

That's stupid.

_Not gonna argue about this one either._

Hazel had missed more of Sev's speech, but she couldn't imagine it was important. With a last few cold words and a last heavy glare, he was sweeping out of the room, as smooth and dramatic as his entrance. The door to his office clicked shut behind him, and he was gone.

'Girls' rooms are in the back to the left.' Hazel jumped, the Head Girl — not entirely sure how to pronounce her name — suddenly speaking into the heavy silence left behind by Sev coming as more of a surprise than it really should have. 'Boys' to the right. First years are the, er, third floor down, I think. You'll find a timetable and a partial map of the castle on your desks, but don't take the maps to be perfectly precise — things tend to move around. Just feel it out and don't think about it too hard, you'll be fine. I think that's everything of immediate importance.' She lifted both hands flicking her fingers at them in a shooing motion. 'Go on, then.'

In an instant, the small crowd of first years was in motion. Muttering lowly to each other, they broke up, slowly drifting toward the back of the room. After a second of hesitation, Hazel started tailing Tracey. She could tell Mum wanted her to talk to the girl, if only to see how the daughter of her old friends was doing. (Tracey's dad had died in the war, and the rest of the Davises were racist arseholes, she could feel Mum was worried.) And, well, it wouldn't be awful to have a friend here.

Hazel had never been the most social person — the Dursleys hadn't given her the option, and the Tonkses had been homeschooling her, no real chance to learn — and she wasn't entirely sure how to even be friends with someone. She had cousins figured out by now, but that was different. Or, at least she assumed it was different. She was sort of friends with Susan, but she barely even talked. What she was getting at, she guessed, she liked having people being around in pleasant mostly-silence. They wouldn't really have to do anything, or talk that much, or whatever, just having someone to sit with during classes and stuff would be nice.

_You really should learn. How to get on with other children, I mean. You will need to be capable of functioning socially eventually._

Yes, Hazel knew that. And keeping an eye on Tracey how Mum was trying to avoid thinking she would like Hazel to could solve that problem, couldn't it? Tracey was a good choice anyway — if Slytherins were all as racist as Mum suspected another halfblood would be most likely to be open to hanging around her.

_Not all of them. That blonde girl she's huddled up whispering at, she's a Greengrass. A wealthy, pureblooded Noble House, true, but they're traditionally good about it. She should be fine, especially if her parents are who I think they are._

Not to mention the fact that she's all huddled up whispering at Tracey. That was a hint right there.

_Yes, good point._

Hazel had been waiting for them to get done with whatever conversation they were having to be done, or at least less intensely private-looking, before barging in. She never did get the chance though. She didn't even make it all the way to the bloody stairs.

'Potter.'

Hazel let out a sigh, hitching to a stop in the middle of the common room. She didn't need to turn around to know that nasally voice was Draco Malfoy bothering her again. Of course, she did turn to face him anyway, she just didn't really want to. As before, he was flanked by the beefy bookends — Goyle and Crabbe, Mum had said? — though he had another boy at his side. It took Hazel a second of staring at him before Mum provided the name Theodore Nott, right then. 'Hello again, Draco.'

His eye twitched at the use of his first name, again, but he was clearly doing his best to ignore it. 'I hope you don't think this is over.'

She blinked. 'I didn't realise there was anything to be over.'

By how Draco was glaring at her, he obviously thought there was. But he forced himself past that too, with an unpleasant grimace, as though ignoring whatever she'd done to offend him this time was physically painful. 'The Hat may have been deluded enough to put you in Slytherin, but that doesn't make you one of us.'

Hazel frowned, glanced around at their audience. The room had mostly emptied, but a few first years and a couple prefects were lingering, watching their little confrontation as though it were actually interesting, which she personally couldn't fathom. She was one of the people in it, and she barely cared enough to not just walk off. After a few pointed glances at their surroundings, Hazel turned back to Draco and said, tone a bit dry, 'Silly me, I was under the impression that was exactly how it worked. Is this not the Slytherin common room, then? Sure looks like it.'

Draco puffed up a bit at that, shoulders rising in some totally inexplicable anger, but it mostly stayed off his voice. 'Slytherin will never accept mudbloods and blood traitors, and you—'

'—aren't either of those.' The silly boy was puffing up even further, but Hazel went on before he could get out something else likely stupid. 'In case you forgot, my father was, you know, Lord of the Noble House of Potter, so, not exactly a _mudblood_ , am I? Halfblood, sure, but still, not the former. And the latter, no, not a blood traitor either. So, we're good, then?'

Draco was wrong-footed enough by that he couldn't find words for a few seconds, blinking and mouthing at her in silence. It was Nott who spoke, his voice impressively low and harsh for an eleven-year-old. 'What in Myrdhin's name are you _talking_ about?'

'Blood traitor: one who betrays her family. Last I checked, I am the only living member and, technically, also the Lady of my House — it is _literally impossible_ for me to be declared a blood traitor.' She shrugged. 'So, there's that.'

Round face pulled into a glare, Nott started, 'He meant—'

And she interrupted again. 'I _know_ what he meant. By the definition the pureblood nationalist Dark uses for the term, it doesn't apply either. I've never done anything they'd find questionable, I'm too young to have. I've never even stated an opinion one way or the other. James Potter would be considered a blood traitor by that measure, sure, but that was before I was born. For all you know, I could be deeply ashamed, and determined to do everything in my power to cleanse my House's name of the taint of his sins.'

She barely managed to hold in a giggle: the flabbergasted expressions blooming to life on all the faces she could make out, including one of the prefects lingering at the top of the boys' stairs, were far too funny. After a short moment of dumbfounded silence, Draco finally managed, 'Are you?' His voice was odd, confused but almost hopeful. As though he were catching a glimpse of great fortune he'd never dreamed possible.

Which might have something to do with the smirk pulling at her lips. 'No, of course not. I find the whole idea of pureblood supremacy unfathomably stupid, and I think you're all delusional idiots for believing in it as strongly as you do. But you couldn't possibly have known that until just this second.'

_Okay, that was a bit more blunt than was probably wise._

She knew that. Was Mum really that surprised?

_Well, no, honestly, just thought I'd comment._

Mum wasn't joking about it probably being unwise: in the next seconds, she caught movements that looked quite a bit like reaching for wands. Hazel tensed, but before she could even blink Head Girl Whatsername was standing between her and the boys. Arms crossed over her chest, she glared at one side then the other — Hazel noticed the glare she got was noticeably briefer — the frizzy reddish-brown hair framing her hard face giving her a wild, almost dangerous look. 'If ye're quite done here, ye best be getting down to bed.'

Hazel waited for the boys, with parting petulant, sullen looks at the older girl, to turn their backs before starting off herself.

It didn't take long to find the right floor. It might have only been a guess, taking what the Head Girl said as gospel, but the sight of the girl Mum had identified as Greengrass gliding down the darkened hall was a pretty good hint. Hazel started down the hall, shoes clicking on the black granite floor, blinking in mild confusion at the symbols prominently displayed by the doors. Mum said that one was the sigil of House Parkinson, that one there was Greengrass. Weird. There was another door a bit down the hall — Mum couldn't make it out from this angle, but the white and red was suggestive of House Potter's, that was probably her — so she kept going, returning Greengrass's silent stare with a raised eyebrow.

She had absolutely no warning but, thankfully, she didn't need one. She felt the tingle of magic on the air, she didn't pause to think, turning with a step to the right. A hex of some kind passed within a couple inches of her back, continuing on to splash harmlessly against the wall at the end of the corridor. A glance the direction it'd come from showed the Parkinson girl peering out her door, opened just a crack, her wand still fixed on Hazel. And they stared at each other, for long seconds, neither hardly blinking.

She noticed Greengrass, barely visible in her peripheral vision, also had her wand out, pointed in Parkinson's general direction. Belatedly, Hazel thought to draw her own, but she left it held aimlessly downward. She'd barely even used the thing, she better trusted herself to be able to deal with the other girl without it.

Apparently deciding discretion was the better part of...well, not _valour_ , that was definitely the wrong word. In any case, Parkinson lowered her wand and, with a final sniff of disdain, she slipped out of sight, the door clicking shut.

Hazel had barely had to time to get her wand squared away back up her sleeve before Greengrass was talking. 'How did you do that?'

Er... She turned around to face Greengrass more fully, fixed her with a faint confused frown. 'Do what?'

The other girl's face was perfectly blank, almost inhumanly expressionless contrasted against her hair. She meant, Greengrass had blonde hair a shockingly bright shade of yellow, almost painful to look at, the juxtaposition between the energy of the hue and the emptiness of her face was slightly surreal. 'The hex came from behind. She whispered too quietly, and you couldn't possibly have seen it coming. How did you dodge it?'

'Oh.' Mum had said the wandless magic practice she'd been doing would also make her far more sensitive to the feel of magic just in general. Which meant admitting she _could_ feel it probably counted as giving away at least part of what she could do, which she was supposed to avoid if at all possible. Well, a little late to do anything about that. With a little shrug, Hazel said, 'Felt it coming, got out of the way.'

And Greengrass just kept staring at her. Head slightly tilted, an odd light in her eyes, Hazel could practically see scales rebalancing in her head. What exactly was being weighed, she couldn't guess, but Greengrass was clearly considering something. She stared long enough Hazel was just about to turn and make for her door when Greengrass lifted her chin in a minute nod. 'Potter.'

Hazel hesitated for just a second. Honestly, it didn't matter to her, she thought proper pureblood etiquette was a fucking ridiculous waste of time and effort, not the point. 'Hazel.'

A look of surprise crossed Greengrass's face, but it disappeared a second later. 'Daphne.'

'Well. All right, then.' Hazel turned on her heel and made for the door without another word.

_It's starting to look like we seriously need to work on your social skills._

Only starting to?

_Yes, well, shut up._

Her room, when she _finally_ got to the bloody thing, wasn't quite what she'd expected. She didn't mean she was bad — actually, it was nicer than she had at home. Four-poster bed with shining sheets and curtains in greens and blacks, the frame and the nearby desk carved of rosy woods polished to gleaming in the soft light from silver lamps attached to the walls, sofas and armchairs framing a little seating area just inside the door.

No, she didn't have a problem with the place. She was just mildly surprised there were _two_ beds, _two_ desks. Standing to one side of the room was Tracey, clearly caught half through changing — her school robes sat as a black puddle on the floor at her feet, revealing the skirt and vest she'd been wearing under it, her fingers frozen at the hem of the latter, as though she'd been about to pull it over her head. Tracey was giving her a wary look of some kind, but by this point Hazel was starting to get sleepy enough she couldn't bother trying to sort out exactly what was going on there.

She was mildly confused. She'd been under the impression they got their own rooms.

_Apparently, halfbloods only get half a room._

That was silly, though. Hazel was a halfblood, sure, but she was also the Lady of a Noble House. Technically. Didn't that mean she socially outranked, well, everyone here?

_Technically, yes. I'm as confused as you are._

Hazel thought about it another second, then shrugged, pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the room. It wasn't like she actually cared. And besides, she'd been meaning to try this making friends thing with Tracey anyway, this was just convenient. 'Hey.' She started the aggravating process of getting these ridiculous baggy robes off, stupid things.

'Hey.' Tracey sounded rather uncomfortable, nervous maybe, but she couldn't tell for sure. At the time Hazel hadn't been able to see her, what with the robes half over her head in the way, and by the time she got the things off Tracey had turned her back to her, awkwardly picking at her skirt.

Oh well. Shrugging it off, Hazel shucked her dress over her head, crouched in front of her trunk to start searching for her nightclothes.

_You know, you could have gotten this out before._

Why did it matter?

_Well, then you wouldn't be sitting here out in the open in your pants._

Hazel frowned to herself, pausing with a stack of books half-lifted out of the way. Why did that matter?

_Back at the Tonkses, you had a room to yourself. Now you're sharing one with Tracey._

And...was that supposed to make a difference to her?

_It doesn't bother you at all?_

What was supposed to be bothering her now?

_That you're sitting here going through your trunk, quite nearly naked, with Tracey standing right there._

Should that bother her?

_Didn't it?_

Erm. No?

_Oh. Well. Even if you don't care, it might make Tracey uncomfortable._

Was that what she'd been being so awkward about over there? The thought of taking her clothes off with Hazel here?

_Well, yes. What did you think that was?_

She didn't know. People were weird sometimes. Could have been anything. Finally spotting her nightdress, Hazel yanked it out of her trunk, then popped back to her feet. She glanced over her shoulder toward Tracey quick. Then froze, staring at Tracey's back with shock-widened eyes. Like that, maybe. What the fuck was _that?_

While Hazel was distracted, Tracey had gotten down to her knickers herself — which meant she'd been stalling a bit, Mum must have pegged the awkward about undressing bit. She was already pulling her nightdress over her head, the motion quick and jerking, but it was too late, Hazel had already seen it. A long scar a vibrant purple, about the width of a finger, starting just under Tracey's left shoulder, running down her back, crossing over her spine to end about a handspan above her right hip.

_I...don't know. I mean, I **do** know. Some kind of severing charm, looks like. With how it scarred, it would have to have been a dark curse. I had a couple scars a lot like its actually. I just, I'm not sure what that's doing on an eleven-year-old girl._

While Lily had been talking, Tracey finished dressing, turning even as she pulled her hair up. She flinched when she noticed Hazel staring at her, pulling away slightly. Soft voice barely audible, she muttered, 'What?'

_She knows you saw it, don't just stare at her, say something._

And what the hell was she supposed to say?

_Something, anything. Not about that, anything else, it doesn't matter just do something!_

Before she realised what she was doing, her mouth was opening, speaking without any conscious decision on her part. It wasn't Mum, she just wasn't thinking. 'You know, I hear my mum knew your parents. We could totally do a second-generation friendship thing. Yeah?'

Tracey just blinked at her for a few seconds — that clearly wasn't what she'd been expecting. Either that or she was trying to parse what Hazel had just said, she'd admit it hadn't come out the most articulate. Or even coherent, really. Hazel was being weirdly awkward at the moment. Not because for something silly, like the fact that she was still standing here in her knickers, which was _apparently_ a normal person reason to be awkward? But, yeah, she just had no bloody idea what she was doing, talking to other human beings was not a very highly-developed skill of hers. No idea what Tracey was thinking of it, probably that she'd suddenly gone mad or something.

But, slowly, a thin, shy sort of smile faded into existence on Tracey's face.

* * *

Hazel was, in a word, underwhelmed.

Perhaps she wasn't being entirely fair. Other people hadn't had intensive private lessons in wandless magic since they were seven. Other people weren't sharing a brain with a former Head Girl who knew practically everything. Other people hadn't read through an entire library worth of books on all kinds of subjects just to have something to do with themselves while waiting for an opportunity to have the secret magic lessons previously mentioned. So, she'd probably come in with unrealistic expectations when it came to learning magic.

But, well, that didn't change the fact that it was easy, and she was bored.

Granted, it was only the first week. And it wasn't like she knew everything. Herbology and Astronomy were mostly new — not that she expected either of those to ever be relevant. Or that interesting, if she were being completely honest. She meant, plants? Really? Who gave a fuck about plants? And what was Astronomy even good for? Ugh, it was so bloody stupid...

Transfiguration, that she couldn't do. Mum had said it could be extremely finicky, and had a tendency to blow up in your face when done wandlessly. Sometimes literally, when doing it with animals, very gross. It could be done, but Mum said it was better to learn it with a wand first, just to get the feel of it right. But Hazel had already read up on much of the theory out of idle boredom, which was all they'd be doing in class for like a month anyway. Nothing to do.

At least, she thought it'd be a month, she didn't know for sure. Flitwick was the only professor so far organised enough he had a rough calendar for them. By the look of it, they'd only be doing theory and basic sparks and light charms until the end of October, and even then it was only the levitation charm. The more complicated one, but still, not hard. She could already do everything on the syllabus for the year. (Sparks did sting her hand a bit, but that could happen.) It was then she'd asked Mum, out of curiosity, how long it would be until they started doing charms Hazel didn't know already.

There might be a few in third year, she'd said. But Hazel was apparently already doing fourth year charms. She'd have to wait three years to not be bored in Charms class. And that was assuming she stopped their little lessons entirely.

Hazel was starting to regret studying so hard, just a little.

And don't even get her started on Defence. Or, she meant, don't get _Mum_ started on Defence. She'd taken one glance at the table of contents of the textbook, gone on a long rant about self-righteous Light idiots and adults being afraid of the dark and beliefs not becoming reality no matter how hard you believe them, then said she'd be teaching Hazel self-defence and a few Dark Arts herself. Mum had even said she could just not go, like she was skipping History, and she'd be perfectly fine with that.

She hadn't actually gone to Defence yet. She's missed two classes so far. If Mum said it was a waste of her time, she was taking her word for it. Tracey would tell her when any exams were scheduled, it's fine.

So, the material wasn't anything in the realm of difficult, or even interesting. The classes themselves went smooth enough as well. She kept getting stared at by people, fascinated glances and whispers following her everywhere, but she was well used to that by now. Draco and the irrational racism brigade kept giving her far less flattering looks, but they weren't even in the same _hemisphere_ as anything _resembling_ a threat, so she just ignored them. A few of the teachers made a bit of a fuss about her — Flitwick falling off his precarious pile of books taking roll got special mention. But, overall, the days passed easily, nothing sticking out too much.

Until her first Potions class, anyway.

Whoever had set up the place had a peculiar sense of aesthetics, that was for sure. The lighting was probably a bit thinner than it should be when brewing, the thin light only partially illuminating bottles along the walls filled with...well, she wasn't sure what a lot of them were, honestly. She suspected the glass was distorting the contents, looked very strange and misshapen. The effect was a bit spooky, she had to wonder what the point of that was.

Stools were set up two to a table, little depressions lined with runes in place of the gas burners a muggle chemistry lab would have. Hazel wasn't sitting with Tracey this time, which she was slightly miffed by. Tracey had practically attached herself to her, which was perfectly fine by Hazel, even if she didn't entirely understand why. Mum had theorised it was partially cynical — being able to say she was friendly with the Girl-Who-Lived was a not insignificant feather in her cap — and partially because she didn't really seem to have much in the way of friends. The only other one here was Daphne, who seemed to have come with Tracey as a package deal. The three of them did usually sit together during class and at meals and wherever else, but Potions only allowed two to a table, which apparently meant Hazel got left out.

Now, she wouldn't normally care about that, but not being paired with Tracey meant she ended up sitting with someone else: Blaise Zabini. They'd both been sitting here for a few minutes, and both had hardly said a word to the other. She could probably count the unique words Blaise had ever spoken aloud in her presence on her fingers. Not that he ignored her, oh no. He just...watched her. Still and silent, always staring at her, a faint sense of confusion about him. As though something were unusual about her, something puzzling, Blaise far too distracted trying to figure it out to even properly hold up a conversation.

It was rather unsettling. She always tried not to notice. All things considered, Sev sweeping in like a villain from some muggle kids' program was something of a relief.

And he didn't let up with the melodramatic act. Hazel just raised an eyebrow at his speech, the thing stretching upward so sharply it was starting to make her face hurt a little. It was just so...silly. With how all the other kids in the room were breathlessly watching him, the tension in the air, they were obviously taking him seriously, but Hazel really couldn't imagine how.

And then, with absolutely no instruction, they were told to start brewing the potion on the board, and that was that. Well. All right, then.

_Do you really have to make fun of him? I can hear that._

But he's just so...

_Yeah. I noticed. I could say he's changed, and wonder what could possibly have happened to him since I've been around, but he hasn't, not really. He's always been a bit..._

Theatrical?

_Sure, let's go with that._

And Mum had been friends with this nutter?

_Shut up._

Hazel shrugged it off, and got down to brewing. Which also wasn't anything like a challenge. Basic potions had been included in her lessons from Andi, and she'd read a bit on her own, and she was sure a little knowledge had leaked over from Mum. Point was, Hazel knew what she was doing, at least well enough to get through the thing without any issues. The class passed uneventfully.

Or, she _could_ say it had passed uneventfully, if Sev hadn't lost his shite and laid into Neville for little identifiable reason.

 _Okay,_ Mum had thought, after watching him reduce Neville to tears. (Or maybe that was the potion he'd spilled on himself, whatever.) _We're talking to Sev right now._

What, in front of the whole class?

_No, of course not, we'll stay after._

But that wasn't right now, though, was it? That was just confusing.

_You're being difficult on purpose again, aren't you._

Well, obviously.

_Jesus, and you're not even a teenager yet..._

It turned out, trailing behind everyone else out of the room was very easy. All the Gryffindors were almost amusingly eager to get the hell out of the room, so they all fled practically the second Sev had told them to get out. The Slytherins weren't quite as rushed, but she did notice they were moving a bit quicker than normal — most obvious in Daphne, she didn't quite manage the delicate glide she usually walked everywhere with, Hazel thought she could actually tell where one step ended and the next began. So sloppy, Andi would have a fit.

_Yes, because you are the epitome of grace._

When she wanted to be? Sure. But it took more effort to walk like that, and she simply didn't care enough to do it most of the time. If she ever did end up dragged to one of those silly formal functions — and, since she was technically a noble lady and all that, she'd have to eventually — she wouldn't embarrass herself, Andi had understood.

_I'm pretty sure she only let you off because Dora already softened her up for you._

Probably. And?

Anyway, point was, it wasn't difficult to arrange being the last person in the queue out of the room. Sev ignoring them as they left meant getting him alone was stupid easy — he didn't even notice she was lingering until she slammed the door closed, the locking charm she'd wandlessly laid into the door clicking the latch to the first instant it could.

Sev twitched at the sound, only slightly, the reflexive jolt of surprise so minimal she might have imagined it. His eyes flicked up to her, and while he didn't glare, exactly, face perfectly even, his eyes still felt heavy and sharp, cold and unforgiving. 'Was there something you needed, Miss Potter?'

When the wave of numbness swept over Hazel's skin, it didn't shake her for a second, just shrugged internally. Internally, because she couldn't do much of anything anymore, her own body pulled from her. Like a puppet on commanding string, she could only sit back and watch. 'Well, Sev, we can start with you not scaring the shite out of my godson for no good reason, and work up from there.'

Hazel didn't think Mum's accent sounded _that_ different from her own. A little more of a drawl, maybe, a bit sloppier about some of the unaccented syllables. If someone weren't paying attention, she wasn't sure it'd be obvious which of them was talking. At least, probably not with anyone else. The head of Slytherin, the undisputed greatest British master of mind magics currently living, former spy and triple-agent and all-around sneaky person, jumped to his feet at the sound of Hazel's voice talking like Mum, scrambled back hard enough he nearly tripped over his chair. And he stared, for a long and heavy moment, his face twisted into such an intense expression of shocked disbelief he was barely recognisable.

And he kept staring, mouth opening a few times but never managing to actually speak before closing again, just staring. Hazel was starting to think Mum might have broken him. That was remarkably easy.

_Give him a second. He thought I died._

Well, Mum had died. Sort of.

_And since people coming back to life is not exactly the normal way of things, I think he can be forgiven for needing a moment._

Finally, the silly man spoke. But even then, he only managed, 'No, you can't—' voice low and shaking, head drifting back and forth in a denial without any real energy.

'Come now, Sev...' Hazel felt Mum smirk, but only barely, her face numb as though the whole thing had gone to sleep. '...this is _me_. You didn't really think I'd let that obsessive megalomaniac get the better of me, did you? Please.'

'But I _saw_ you! I—' He broke off, eyes closing. For a few seconds he said nothing, leaning against his chair, hands clutching the back rest so hard his fingers had gone more pale even than usual, taking slow breaths through his nose. 'I was there. I saw her body. I _felt_...' His eyes flicked open again, turned to meet hers. Hazel had half-expected tears, but it didn't look like any were there. If anything his gaze felt more focused, more intense than it'd been a moment ago. If Hazel were in charge at the moment, she might have flinched. 'You can't be her. Lily is gone.'

'It's really me, Sev.' Mum's voice had gone noticeably softer, the sardonic edge faded away. 'He may have killed my body, but I'm still here.'

'But... Your...' Apparently at a loss for exactly how to put it, he gestured at Hazel, eyebrows rising in a clear question.

'Oh, well, yes. I am sort of possessing someone at the moment. Say hello, Hazel.'

The numbness lifted just as suddenly as it'd come, and her knees dipped for just a second before Hazel caught herself. The sudden need to remain standing always came as a surprise, every damn time. 'Ah, hi there.' She gave a little wave, trying not to feel completely ridiculous. 'Mum tells me you're my kinda-sorta-not-really uncle.'

Sev's eyebrow shot up his face with record speed, and the numbness broke over her again, her mouth moving without her. 'Hey, don't look at me like that. I didn't say the _kinda-sorta-not-really_ part, that's all Hazel.'

For what felt like the thousandth time today, Sev just stared at them, face totally blank, eyes black and empty. That was really getting quite irritating. Hazel resisted the urge to fidget for a bit before realising she couldn't fidget at the moment anyway, there was no point trying to bury it.

Finally, Sev slumped, his forehead coming down against the top of the backrest. Someone muffled by the chair against his face, he muttered, 'I think I need a drink to deal with this shite.'

Mum just nodded, a smile twitching at her lips. 'The office in the dorms?'

He let out a long sigh. 'Yeah. Give me fifteen seconds to get the wards down.' And then, without a sound or even the slightest of twitches, he was just...gone.

Woah. And Hazel had thought you couldn't apparate in Hogwarts.

_He didn't. That was shadow-walking._

The hell was shadow-walking.

_Shadow magic trick. I'll start teaching you shadow magic when you're a little older. It's bloody useful, but a bit finicky. And when it goes bad, it goes **bad**. Also, it's technically banned in Britain._

Such a responsible mother, teaching her illegal dark magic.

 _It shouldn't be illegal, but I guess that's not really the point_. Before Hazel could come up with something snarky to think at that, she felt Mum go for her magic. She did something with it, Hazel couldn't tell what, and a curtain of cold blackness fell over her, the classroom abruptly disappearing.

An instant later the blackness was gone. They were in a different room, a study of some kind. A wide desk littered with papers, walls lined in packed bookshelves, nothing but books and books and books, save narrow gaps for a door each on opposite walls, a wider one for a hearth opposite the desk. A couple tables here and there with more papers, a few little objects Hazel couldn't identify, some with visible lines of runes carved into them. Before the crackling fire were two padded armchairs, one noticeably more weathered than the other.

And there was Sev standing a couple steps away, face slightly strained, a glass in each hand. He hesitated long enough Mum spoke before him. 'Well, you're a better interior decorator than Slughorn was.'

His eye twitched. 'I would have to put in conscious effort to approach the appropriate level of gaudiness.'

'He wasn't _that_ bad.'

'He was pretty bad. You know, I went at the carpet with several different scouring charms and multiple cleaning potions, but I never did get out the smell of cigar smoke. I had to replace it.'

She snorted. 'Yeah, that doesn't surprise me.' Hazel vaguely felt her own eyebrows tick up, her vision focusing on the glasses in Sev's hands. 'You know I'm not gonna drink that.'

'Last I checked, you liked black rum. Granted, I'm not certain whether or how your tastes would change while possessing someone else.'

Her vision shifting with the rolling of her eyes, when Hazel wasn't doing the rolling, was a bit disorienting. _Sorry._ 'Sev? I'm eleven.'

He raised a single eyebrow. 'No, you're not.'

'Well, no, but Hazel is, and I feel it's her age that should matter.'

There was a very short pause, Sev just staring at her. _Again_. 'You know, Lily, I somehow never pegged you as the responsible mother type.'

'Bite me, Severus.'

'Tea, then.'

'Tea would be lovely.'

A call to a house-elf and a minute later, they were sitting in the armchairs before the fire. It was a somewhat odd experience to Hazel — while the fire wasn't especially large, it _was_ there and it _was_ warm, but the heat of it didn't feel quite right. An indistinct pressure against her numb skin, as though a _very_ light cloth, only slightly warmer than the open air, was softly setting against her face and hands. By comparison, Mum stirring honey and cinnamon into her tea was far a far more normal experience. She fully expected her actually drinking it to be _very_ strange, but not the point.

As Mum fixed her tea, Sev was staring at her again. His glass still in his frozen hand, face blank as always, eyes closely tracking her hands as Mum moved them. Finally, Mum glanced up. 'What?'

Sev didn't jump, but he did jerk into motion with a bit less smoothness than usual. 'You'll have to forgive me, Lily. This is all just a bit...' He paused for a second, taking a sip of his rum as he quested for the right word, ice softly tinkling. '...surreal.'

'Yes, well. Welcome to the party.' Mum took a sip of the tea, and yeah, that did feel very strange. Hazel shook it off, analysing it would just make her more uncomfortable, come on, roll with it. 'Okay, either this is _really_ good tea, or it's simply been far too long since I've actually tasted anything.'

Sev frowned at her. 'How long has it been?'

Hazel's vision flickered a few times as Mum blinked. 'Er... Well, since Hallowe'en eighty-one, I suppose. I normally only take over when I absolutely have to. Things taste different when I'm in the background. It's creeping Hazel out a little, actually.'

You know, if Mum wanted to come out at mealtimes every once in a while, she wouldn't mind.

_I'm fine, Hazel. Don't worry about me._

'And how are you doing that, anyway?'

Mum turned a raised eyebrow on Sev. 'Hmm?'

'I mean, how are you not dead? How exactly did you come to be possessing the girl?'

Hazel's vision narrowed, just noticeably. 'Hazel, Severus. Her name is Hazel.'

Sev waved his open hand, clearly brushing it off.

'She can see and hear everything I can, you realise.'

'I fail to see how that's my problem.'

Honestly, Mum, she really didn't care.

_He's being very rude._

And she didn't care.

_Well, I care. You're my daughter, and he should be nice to you, if for no other reason than to please me._

Mum had known this bloke for most of his life. Was he ever really _nice?_

_Well...no, not really._

Expecting him to be nice just because seemed a bit unrealistic, then, didn't it?

_He's always been nice to me, though._

But, but he'd insulted Mum, like, three times already just this conversation!

_I really don't see what that has to do with anything._

'Lily?'

The world around her refocused, Sev reappearing in the middle of his study looking vaguely concerned. Only vaguely, but it was there. 'Ah, sorry. Talking to Hazel.' Mum paused a moment taking another unsettlingly bland sip of tea. 'I don't know.'

He blinked. 'How you're still here, you mean. You don't know.'

The room slid back and forth a few degrees as Mum shook her head. 'No idea.'

But she'd said—

_I know what I said. It's just a little more complicated than I made it sound at the time._

...Mum lied to her?

_No. I simplified concepts and omitted details in hopes I could get a seven-year-old with no magical knowledge to speak of to wrap her head around a white sacrificial protective ritual I'd invented on my own and never actually tested. Even I don't fully understand what happened, and I was the one who did it._

Wait. Could... Could a sacrificial ritual even _be_ white magic?

_Yes. See, fucking complicated._

Sev was thrown by the admission enough it took him a bit to gather himself, seemingly not even noticing she'd distracted Mum again. 'You...don't know.' This quietly, lowly, a hint of disbelieving disdain underneath. 'You _don't know.'_

Mum shook her head again. ''Fraid not. I adapted an old vengeance ritual I found in the Potter library. I kept the basic framework, but I changed enough details... Well, I only intended to take out the Dark Lord. No idea what happened with me. Or why he's still around, for that matter.'

The movement seemingly unconscious, Sev's free hand drifted toward the inside of his forearm, stopping halfway only to return to the armrest. 'You know, then.'

Mum nodded. 'I might be rather limited at the moment, but I still hear things.'

She still snuck out to Knockturn Alley in the middle of the night, she meant.

_There's no reason to—_

'You still sneak out to Knockturn Alley in the middle of the night, you mean.'

Woah. Uncanny.

Mum let out a long sigh, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. _Or perhaps there's absolutely no point at all to not admitting everything._ 'Yes, fine, we sneak out sometimes. Point is, yes, I know he's not entirely gone. Can't imagine how, though.'

Sev shrugged. 'Dumbledore has long made his hints. Personally, I suspect a horcrux — perhaps several, given who we're talking about.'

'Can't be a horcrux. I would have gotten those.'

'What? How?'

'The particular vengeance ritual I based mine on returns whatever harm intended to the subject by the target back upon him, three by three and three times again. His killing curse would have been returned to him as _twenty-seven_ — I somehow doubt he made that many. Whatever form of immortality he has, it can't be based on soul magic.'

Seemingly accepting the argument, Sev started nodding. Then he froze in mid-nod, a queer, thoughtful sort of look spreading across his face. 'Correct if I'm wrong.'

A smirk pulled at her lips. 'I always do.'

Sev didn't even seem to notice the teasing. 'The Green Death leaves no physical sign, no damage. A bit of nerve damage, if course, but nothing externally visible.'

Mum tilted her head, the sudden shift to her surroundings nearly making Hazel dizzy. 'Correct.'

'This does not change, no matter how much or how little energy is put into a successful casting.'

'Correct, so far as I know. An especially powerful casting might discharge the extra energy, perhaps violently. But, in principle?'

He nodded, that odd look only intensifying. 'Even if the curse is cast multiple times on the same target, no change. Five, ten, a thousand, no difference.'

This time, Mum hesitated, only a short moment before slowly nodding. 'I think so? The Green Death only acts on the soul — it shouldn't do anything at all to someone who's already dead, as they would be after the first one.'

'Right.' Sev was quiet a moment, staring into the fire. He took a slow sip of his rum, swallowed. Then, flat, emotionless, 'He was melted.'

The world flickered again. 'What?'

'The Dark Lord.' Sev shifted in his seat, just for an instant, the movement so small it was hardly noticeable. 'I was...first on the scene, you might say. I went the instant I felt the Fidelius collapse. I saw the Dark Lord's body. I'm not sure how else to describe it, but to say he was melted.'

'He... _melted?'_

Sev just nodded, expression sharp and serious.

'But, that...' Hazel couldn't begin to interpret exactly what was going on in Mum's head at that moment. Not that Mum's thoughts were ever _perfectly_ open to her, this time it was just confusing. A riot of facts and thought and theory, stitched together in a web building itself before her eyes. One possibility after another, and another and another, various explanations discarded as they failed to fit the data. Until, finally, one piece sunk into place in the puzzle, it seemed to fit, and—

The teacup exploded in Hazel's hands, sending sharpened shards and steaming droplets flying in all directions. Her hands had been cut, she'd been splashed with hot tea, but Hazel was removed enough she barely felt it. Mum didn't seem to feel it either, she hadn't even twitched.

Hazel didn't feel the pain from the burst of accidental magic — which was interesting, had Mum _ever_ done that? — but she did feel something else. It was a soundless roaring in her ears, a thoughtless buzzing in her head, her chest so filled with a frigid tightness, too _much_ , like she'd inhaled a blizzard, frozen winds tearing at her throat and her lungs until they bled. And her magic was writhing, icicles dragging along her skin, a hiss of snow scraping against snow in the air. Hazel had never felt this before, but she somehow knew what it meant.

Mum was absolutely, murderously _enraged_.

'Lily, are you—'

'A blood-boiling curse.' Mum said it as a whisper, a strain against her clenched throat, Hazel barely heard it. 'It was a blood-boiling curse.'

Hazel's body was shivering, tips of her fingers to the ends of her shoulders, the ceramic shards in her lap clinking. But she wasn't cold, not really, Mum was _furious_ , she could feel it, making her magic bigger, too much to fit inside her comfortably, too full, it had to bleed out somehow, body shaking and hearth flaring and specks of ice climbing up her robes.

'He cast a blood-boiling on my baby girl. A _blood-boiling curse!'_

'Lily, this is a calming potion, drinking it before I spell it into y—'

What was the big deal anyway? What difference did it make how he'd tried to kill her?

'It was a _conscious decision_ , Hazel! The Green Death is instant, painless! He _chose_ not to use it! He _chose_ to do something else! He didn't just want to kill you, he wanted you to _suffer!_ Oh, he is _so_ dead, he is _so dead_ , I'm sending that _son of a bitch to hell if I have to **tear** him apart and **drag** him there **piece by FUCKING**_ —'

* * *

Hazel didn't remember anything after that. That would have been about when her professor and new honorary uncle just gave up and drugged them both into unconsciousness.

Not that Hazel could really blame him: the next time she would see the inside of that room, over a month later, the chair they'd been in had been replaced, and the carpet had been bleached an unnatural blue-white, forming a perfect circle on the floor. The time after that, the carpet would be new, the colour slightly but conspicuously different.

Sometimes, it was all too easy for her to forget her mother really was quite terrifying. Objectively speaking, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In case anyone was wondering, yes, Olwen is Hedwig._
> 
>  
> 
> _And yes, Dora really did quote Shakespeare. Henry V, III.i, specifically._
> 
>  
> 
> [the last traces of sunlight setting one face of each cloud afire] — _It really should **not** be after dark. I picked a spot in the Scottish Highlands that seems like a reasonable location for Hogwarts, and on September first 1991 the sun set at about seven local time. For it to be full dark, it would have to be after eight. That just doesn't seem very likely to me. Might seem a minor detail to make a thing of, but that's always bothered me._
> 
> Değsut (IPA: /ðɛɰ.sɯθ/ ; /ɖɛɣ.tʰɯʈ) — _Just a name, doesn't mean any particular thing. Lily is correct that they are the veela/lilin royal family (which only means anything to veela and lilin), and that it's been around for a very, very long time._
> 
> [But Hazel was apparently already doing fourth year charms] — _In headcanon, wands are not necessary for any magic. They are far more efficient, making spells far easier to cast, but there is no such thing as a spell that **must** be done with a wand. Since Hazel was **only** studying Charms, in one-on-one lessons with a witch who'd figured out a few basic charms before learning wands even existed (see that scene in book 7, seriously, Lily is ridiculous when you think about it), it's not unreasonable to me she might have finished three years of Charms class in roughly three and a half full years of study. She's obscenely over-prepared, not naturally gifted. Of course, she **is** naturally gifted, but that's not actually relevant in this case, any mage could do it if dedicated enough._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Happy new year?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Yes, this is significantly late. It was posted late on FFN in the first place, and that was a few days ago. It was late there because I'd lost a day driving out to my parents'. And I forgot my laptop like an idiot — typing on my phone, not fun. I also managed to loose all my edits like a double idiot. I was gonna post it on here as soon as I had a bit to do a proper edit, which wasn't until now. Whoops._
> 
>  
> 
> _Anyway, should have next chapter next weekend, but probably not Friday. Might be even more late, actually — I've only just finished the first scene. Should be fun, though. Involves Severus getting a massive headache with "Potter" written all over it, and the girls discovering what exactly Ollivander knows about them they didn't. Oh, and there also might be a troll in there somewhere. I'm sleepy, I can't be expected to keep track of every little troll, come on._
> 
>  
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	5. Premonitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein everybody who talks to Hazel ends up with a headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes, this is late. Writing was delayed by various things — holiday travel, work being dumb, and insomnia are the biggest culprits. But, finally here you go:_

* * *

'Ah, Hazel? Isn't your meeting with Snape, erm, right now?'

In the middle of their room, frozen half the way over to the bathroom, Hazel turned to frown over at Tracey. 'Is it?'

'Yeah?' Sitting at her desk, Tracey glanced over her shoulder at Hazel, then abruptly turned back to her books, her ears pinking slightly. 'I mean, I copied the schedule, I have it right here.' Tracey was in the way, but she could hear a harsh shuffling of parchment. 'It's in, like, five minutes. You don't really have time to take a bath.'

Really didn't, did she. Hazel tossed her towel aside, aim precise enough the thing draped itself over the footboard of her bed. 'Thanks, totally forgot.' She moved over to her wardrobe, yanked a dress out at random. Like half the things she wore around the common room, it was a bit muggle-ish, some of her fellow Slytherins would be less than pleased. But, as she couldn't honestly give a flying fuck what they thought about her, she couldn't be arsed to put in even the minimal effort to track down something they'd find acceptable, so she didn't bother.

'Mm-hmm. Daphne and I'll be at dinner, if it goes late.' Tracey's tone held the unspoken suggestion that it would almost certainly go late, because Hazel would almost certainly find some way to aggravate their head of house, dragging the meeting out far longer than it had any business lasting. Hazel couldn't disagree with the sentiment, honestly.  _Most_  of the time, when she pushed people's buttons, it was entirely on accident, but Sev was one of the people she annoyed on purpose.

Hazel was just turning to start for the door when Mum's voice appeared in her head, reminding her she hadn't put knickers on. She considered arguing for a second, but then just turned back to her wardrobe with a shrug. She still didn't understand why Mum always insisted she wear the things. She meant, she wasn't completely stupid, she understood it was expected people would be wearing a minimum of clothing if they were to be anywhere anyone might see them, exactly what that minimum was depending on context. Honestly, she still didn't get  _why_  that was expected, but she understood it  _was_ , which was reason enough to just go along with it. But, well, this dress covered that minimum. It wasn't like anyone would be seeing her knickers — or, more to the point, anything that would generally be covered by them — so she didn't quite get why Mum seemed to think they were necessary enough she had to go back for them.

_You know, it's not outside of the realm of possibility someone might get a glimpse up your skirt at some point._

And? Looking up people's skirts was a violation of the same rules of propriety anyway. She really didn't see how it should be her problem if someone saw more than they were comfortable with doing something they weren't supposed to. Sounded like their problem.

 _It isn't a matter of_ _ **them**_   _being— Doesn't it bother you_ _ **at all**_ _?_

Hazel failed to entirely hold in a wince at the aggravation threaded through Mum's thoughts — ever since that first week here, Mum had been... Well, she had a considerably shorter fuse than before. She was gradually going back to normal, but it  _was_  gradual, she still got angry abnormally easily. Usually not at Hazel, but she did snap sometimes.

But, er, no, it didn't bother her. Honestly, it didn't quite click to her that it should. Hell, if she didn't have to worry about everyone else getting tetchy at her, she'd have absolutely no problem going around to classes and such completely naked. When May and June came around, and it started getting hot again, she'd probably be wishing she could. Yes, of course, she  _did_  get that she couldn't, that it was considered inappropriate for some unfathomable reason, but it was just that: unfathomable. She really didn't see why people cared.

_Your feelings on the matter are equally unfathomable to me. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be, I don't know the word, but you are very strange sometimes._

Hazel just shrugged. She didn't mind the thought of being strange.

_And, sorry for snapping at you._

It's fine.

_It's really not, but I'm not about to try to convince you to be annoyed with me._

Moving more or less on autopilot, Hazel had already made it to the front of the common room, right in front of the door to Sev's office. The door was opened a crack, so Hazel just knocked on the frame quick, and stepped inside, pushing it closed behind her. She jumped a little when she felt the crackle of wards snapping into place, only inches from her fingers. 'I'm not late, am I?' she said, glancing around the room.

She was momentarily distracted when she caught sight of the only thing that was different: the chairs in front of the fireplace no longer matched, one a noticeably different design from the weathered one she assumed Sev spent a fair bit of time in. The new one, a rounded thing of shining black leather, was ringed with carpet an eerie-looking bluish, silverish white, the contrast with the darker carpet of the rest of the room sharp and eye-catching. Had... Had Mum done that? In that little episode a month and a half ago now?

Huh.

'You are precisely on time, Miss Potter.' She blinked, turned to the desk at the opposite end of the room. Sev was seated behind it, looking not at her but a folder set open on the surface, fingers idly sliding down the edge of one of the parchments inside. 'Have a seat,' he said, nodding at one of the chairs across from him.

Hazel drifted over, temporarily turning inward during the short silence. Did Mum want to talk to Sev, as long as they were here?

_No, no, this meeting is for you. If I feel a pressing need to comment, you can just repeat what I'm thinking._

All right, Hazel thought, flopping down into one of the chairs. She knew Mum and Sev had been friends, and Mum hardly got to do anything, stuck in the back of her head all the time. If she wanted to come out and talk to him every once in a while, Hazel would—

_I'm fine, sweetheart. Don't worry about me._

Hazel frowned a little at the deflection, but let the subject drop.

Over the next seconds, nobody said anything. Hazel noticed Sev still wasn't looking at her. He'd never given her the unsettling stares everyone else seemed doomed to suffer, that first week always glancing at her and moving on, as though she were barely worth noting. Ever since Mum had revealed she was in here too, though, Sev hardly seemed willing to look at her even that long. In Potions class, he'd never spoken to her longer than was absolutely necessary — which wasn't much, considering Potions was probably her second-best subject, after Charms — and he hadn't once directly acknowledged her existence outside of class. It was a bit...odd. She'd been getting the distinct feeling she, they, made him uncomfortable somehow, just existing. Mum was quite annoyed with his behaviour, but she'd acknowledged there wasn't much they could do about it. He would either get over it, or he wouldn't, they couldn't  _make_  him stop being weird.

Finally, after an uncomfortably long hesitation, Sev was talking. 'I don't suppose any of your classmates might have told you what these meetings usually entail.'

Hazel shrugged. 'Daphne said it was no big deal, just routine stuff. Tracey said hers was rather unpleasant, but she didn't say why.'

'She would have, wouldn't she.' Sev's eyes went slightly out of focus, staring off into the distance, finger idly tapping at parchment. Only for a couple seconds, he snapped back quickly. 'I'll admit, a significant portion of my standard interview is unnecessary. Andromeda and I are acquainted, and she has kept me informed of your circumstances.' His lips twitched, just noticeably. 'So far as she is herself aware, of course.'

It was Mum who caught the implications there, and Hazel found it interesting enough she repeated the thought. 'Wait, is the whole point of these meetings to screen for abused students?'

Sev's eyes jumped up to hers, just for a second, before going back to the parchments. 'As you are no longer at risk yourself, I fail to see how that could possibly be your business.'

_Oh, Sev. And here I wasn't convinced you had a heart._

What did Mum mean? So far as Hazel could tell, he barely tolerated even the Slytherins' presence. He'd probably be pleased if he never had to share oxygen with a child ever again — or, anyone else at all, for that matter.

 _You're not wrong, he does_ _ **not**_   _like children. But he's still going out of his way to make sure none under his care are being mistreated at home. It's sweet._

Hazel had the feeling Mum's standards for "sweet" were  _far_  lower for Sev than they would be for anyone else.

_Yes. And?_

Nothing, really. It was kinda funny, was all.

_Funny, is it?_

Yep. She could tell by the way Hazel was smiling right now, see?

By the look of it, the tension on his brow, Sev had noticed the smiling, and was likely misinterpreting it. Or, well, perhaps he was  _correctly_  interpreting it, but was annoyed anyway. Sev did seem the prickly sort. He didn't say anything about it, though. 'Moving on. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to be adjusting adequately. I have gotten little in the way of complaints from my colleagues. Academically, I have heard nothing but praise — Professor Flitwick in particular seems quite impressed.'

'Well, yes. I'm told I'm quite impressive.' Sev's eyes flicked to hers, one eyebrow raising with a faint sense of disdain. So, Hazel drew a trickle of energy forth.

In the end, wandless magic wasn't particularly difficult. Strong enough a will for something to happen, enough power to make it happen, and things took care of themselves. It was more efficient, though, to shape the magic into the form one wanted manually. Mum thought of it as literal shape, geometric forms of colourful, writhing surfaces; Hazel, however, had trouble building five-dimensional objects in her head. Instead, she thought of magic in musical terms, chords of individual notes vibrating in various colours (not that she could put into words how sound could have colour, Mum didn't entirely get it). Each charm was a different chord, easy enough to remember one she had an ear for it.

Twisting her magic into the particular harmony that gave rise to multicoloured lights, Hazel wiggled her fingers in the air. A corona of softly glowing oranges and blues and purples surrounding the dramatically flailing digits, she whispered, ' _Magic.'_

_And you're annoying him on purpose again._

Yep. It  _was_  okay if he knew she could do wandless stuff, right? She hadn't actually asked, but she'd kinda assumed Sev was okay. Especially since he'd known what Mum could do, and that Mum was here...

_Yes, it's fine. I don't actually mind you annoying him a little either._

Oh. Well, good then. Not entirely sure she'd be capable of stopping herself anyway.

In response to her little bit of taunting, Sev's eyebrow only raised an extra centimetre. After a short second of staring, he turned back to the pile of parchment, clearly dismissing it. Boo, he'd barely reacted, boring. 'While no one appears to have any concerns about your academic performance, your personal behaviour has drawn a few comments.'

She frowned. 'What about my personal behaviour?'

'A few of my colleagues have expressed concern over how...' Sev seemed to search for the proper word, eyes going slightly out of focus again. '... _antisocial_  seems a little strong. You know what I'm speaking of, I'm sure. Professors Sprout and McGonagall particularly have observed that you only seem to be friendly with Miss Davis and Miss Greengrass. Everyone else, I'm told you meet with either apathy or disdain. Your frequent disagreements with Mister Malfoy, Mister Smith, and Miss Granger especially have become an issue of concern.'

'That's a bit hypocritical of you, isn't it? Commenting on someone else being antisocial.'

Oh, wow, that look was almost a legitimate glare. Didn't think she'd ever gotten one of those from him before. 'It would not be wise to unnecessarily antagonise me, Miss Potter.'

She shrugged. 'I unnecessarily antagonise a lot of people. Besides, it's not like you're going to do anything to me.'

The glare grew a shade more intense, the black light in his eyes almost burning. 'Oh? I assure you, Miss Potter, there are quite a variety of things in my power I can do to make your time here most unpleasant.'

'Yeah, but you won't. See, that would make my mum unhappy with you, and you're gonna avoid that if you can help it.'

It was so tiny, if she hadn't been looking she would have missed it. His fingers on his parchments twitched ever so slightly, the barest flicker crossing his face, a grimace he'd almost managed to fully repress. And then he stared at her, silent a short second. 'Of course, I always knew you were going to be an enormous bloody headache. You are a Potter. It seems to be genetic.'

'Hmm.' Hazel let her head tip to the side, shrugging a little. 'Well, since I've had my mum in my head talking to me almost constantly since I was seven, and I barely know anything at all about my father, if I were to take after either of my parents, personality-speaking, I should think it would be the Evans side. But, they're irritating too, I'm told. My mum is, you know, my mum, I know she bothered a lot of people. And, have you met Petunia before?'

Sev didn't say anything. But his eyes narrowed, lip curling, a faint but visible expression of distaste.

She grinned. 'Well, there you go, then.'

'Putting that aside,' Sev said, voice sharper than usual, still glaring a little, 'there was another issue I wanted to address. I'm told you've been skipping class.'

Sitting up straight again — the teasing portion of the meeting was apparently over — Hazel frowned at him. 'But, who even goes to History? Other than Hufflepuffs and Hermione Granger, I mean.'

The glare narrowed a tick, that cold fire building in his eyes again. 'I was referring to Defence. According to Professor Quirrel's records, you have yet to attend a single session.'

'Oh.' She felt a smile spreading across her face. 'I wasn't aware we had a Defence class.'

'Miss Potter...'

'I know there's a lecture series,  _An Introduction to Why I'm Scared of the Dark with Quirinus Quirrel_ , but that's not really the same thing as a proper Defence course, now, is it?'

Sev's lips twitched at that. Just a little, just for a second, but Hazel was going to count that as a victory. It was far harder to take people chastising her seriously when they found her perfectly legitimate points amusing. His glare even seemed lesser somehow, empty, as though it were a mask he were wearing and not a true expression. 'Be that as it may, Miss Potter, you still have to go.'

'Why?'

The simple question seemed to throw Sev off for a moment. He leaned back in his chair slightly, the empty glare suddenly wiped away, and just sat blinking at her for a few seconds. 'I think that should be obvious.'

'It's not, though.' Hazel shrugged. 'Now, I'm not saying Quirrel's is a proper class on the subject, it's not, he's terrible. But what even  _is_  Defence Against the Dark Arts?'

'The magical world can be a very dangerous place, as I'm sure you know by now, and it is not unreasonable for some form of practical self-defence to be—'

'It's  _not_ , though.' Sev started glaring at her again, probably because she'd interrupted, but she didn't actually care. 'It's not that. There's no real self-defence in there. And half the things in it are wrong! Like there's the— Oh, what was it?' She frowned to herself for a moment, trying to think, but she couldn't come up with the exact wording. Not surprising, she'd barely even flipped through the book once. After a couple seconds, she stopped even trying, and glanced around at the bookshelves instead. She drew energy into her fingers, shaped the chord she wanted, thinking of  _The Dark Forces_  by Quentin Trimble, and absently waved her hand over her shoulder. The magic caught, and a book obligingly sprung into her hand from across the room. She slammed the text down on the desk in front of her, and started flipping through the pages.

Sev, she noticed, only reacted to the casual wandless magic so far as to silently raise an eyebrow at her. Letting him know was definitely okay, then.

'I mean, first, look at the stuff this stupid thing covers.' Hazel flipped more to the front. 'There's thirty on trolls.' She flipped a bit further along. 'Here's twenty on gargoyles. Here's thirty on ghosts. Oh here's a bit on bowtruckles.' She glanced up at Sev. 'Did you know, Tracey told me they're a week into a unit on bowtruckles right now.  _Bowtruckles_. Not exactly deadly dangerous Dark creatures, are they? Seriously, why does it take more than ten minutes to explain the proper way to defend yourself from  _bowtruckles?_  If you find some, leave their tree bloody well alone! It's not rocket science.'

'Miss Potter...'

'The point is, are we likely to run into trolls any time soon? The Ministry has had them well enough contained for centuries! Do you really need to defend yourself against gargoyles and ghosts? Sure, gargoyles are defensively useful, but how many place even  _have_  them? Hogwarts and a few old castles some Noble Houses still have hanging around, that's really it. Doesn't seem worth spending  _most of March on_ , as Quirrel apparently has planned, do you think?'

'Whether or not it seems—'

'Anyway, this is the line I was thinking of. " _The Zombie dwells only in the Southern part of America. It is an example, like the Vampire, of the Living Dead and may be recognised by its greyish colour and its rotten smell."_  The only problem with that?  _Everything_  about it is  _wrong!_  All zombies are are corpses animated with magic. There is nothing "living" about that. They  _don't_  only exist in South America — virtually every magical culture on the face of the planet has their own iteration of the concept. And the specific black magic tradition I suspect they're referring to is practised in the  _Caribbean_ anyway, not in the South!'

'I am of course duly impressed with your grasp of simple—'

'Also, most methods of preserving these automatons involves halting decomposition, so there wouldn't necessarily be any discolouration or noticeable odour. Especially if the caster got to the body early enough after death, which they usually do, so that description is wrong the  _majority of the time!_ Oh, also?  _Vampires aren't dead!_  They're not different from any other living being when you get down to it. This idiot is publishing  _superstition_  and calling it fact! How is that supposed to be  _at all_  helpful?'

'If you could  _shut up_  for two—'

'And this, this really got me.' Hazel flipped to the front of the book — the introduction, actually. After a moment of searching, she found the correct paragraph. 'Right here, see, it says, " _It is the presumption of the majority of Mages that the greatest part of the violence against Wizardkind is committed by the various Dark Creatures and nonhuman Beings."_  But...' Hazel scanned through the next few paragraphs, looking for something short and simple she could quote that would close the point. Didn't look like it, Trimble had spread the point around too much to make it that easy. Oh well. '...whatever, the point is, he says it is far more likely a mage will have to defend himself from  _other mages_  — the incidence of attacks from creatures and beings is far lower than the ordinary crime rate, not even getting started on how many Dark Lords we get here in Britain and the lunatics that follow them.'

'Miss Potter, I am not—'

'But he  _barely_  even talks about dealing with other mages! Magical combat, hostile enchantments or potions, none of it! There are brief sections on a few of the worst curses, but he just  _describes_  them, barely even mentions how to counter them! What's even the bloody point? How does that logic even make sense?  _Oh, yeah, turns out all this stuff about creatures and such is mostly useless, you'll never actually need it. Let's spend six hundred pages talking about it anyway, I'm sure it'll—_ '

The flat of Sev's hand came down on the surface of the table, hard, the sharp slapping sound making Hazel jump. ' _Miss Potter.'_  Startled into silence, she fidgeted under Sev's heavy glare for a few seconds, trying not to look too shifty. 'Are you  _quite_  done?'

Slowly, Hazel folded the cover closed, slid the book closer to the centre of the desk. 'Sure, I can be done. Sorry.'

The glare lessened somewhat, but Sev kept staring at her. When he finally spoke, there was an odd feel about his voice, Hazel couldn't say exactly what. 'Out of curiosity, was that you or your mother?'

She frowned at him. 'That was all me. Mum couldn't even get past the table of contents.'

'Yes, well...' Sev cleared his throat, shifted in his chair for a moment, then resettled himself, fingers delicately folded on the desk in front of him. 'I am not disputing the facts, Miss Potter. You are correct: there are very serious issues with the current curriculum of the course, and Quirrel's presentation of it specifically.'

'Then why do—'

'Miss Potter, it  _does not matter_.' He was silent a long moment, black, piercing gaze unnervingly steady on her. She just sat and waited, frowning up at him. 'Sometimes we must do things we do not like. I do not expect you to enjoy Professor Quirrel's class. I do not expect you to find it informative, or useful. Or even factually accurate, when it comes down to it. I  _do_  expect you to go.'

Hazel frowned at him for a second, taking in the severity heavy in every inch of his face, every bit of him stern and unrelenting and insistent. Then she shrugged. 'Nah, not gonna.'

His brow fell into a glare, eyes turning sharper and brighter. 'I have already written to Andromeda. Do you really want to make me send more?'

Yeah, Hazel already knew about that. Andi had sent her a letter about it, Hazel already replied saying she wasn't going to go no matter what Andi said, and Andi had already replied to  _that_  saying stuff about as long as Hazel understood the potential consequences, blah blah. It wasn't like Andi could  _force_  her to go or anything. Andi hadn't even tried to convince her to go that hard — Hazel assumed Dora had written her about Quirrel, that would make sense. So, not much of a threat there. 'I don't really have any say in who writes letters to Andi. Knock yourself out.'

Oh, wow, that glare was starting to get a bit forceful. Not as scary as he gave some of the students he really disliked, but still, not bad. Not that she was actually scared — it wasn't like he could hurt her, and, with Mum in her head, it wasn't like he would even if he could. But still, she wished she could glare like that.

_Wait until you're a little older. There's a thing you can do to make your magic feel scary to people, it can be quite intimidating. Don't even need to have a good glare for it to work._

Neat. That would be useful, cause, tiny.

_Yeah, you are a bit too small and adorable to be properly intimidating._

Which was just annoying, cause she was a pretty scary girl! Just, all that wandless magic she could do, and look at that knowledge of illegal black arts she'd just been casually throwing about a second ago! Very scary.

_Of course, sweetheart. I'd be right terrified if I were one of your classmates._

No reason to tease, she was joking around anyway.

_I was playing along. Am I not allowed to play along?_

Well, sure, but they should probably be paying attention to Sev right now.

_He just said something about running off to sell you out to Dumbledore. Which I don't believe for a second — Sev loathes the man, he'd need a better reason than this._

Right. Well, Hazel was gonna go ahead and interrupt him again.

_He really hates that, you know._

Believe it or not, she had noticed. 'Yeah, I'm sure this is all very threatening, but I don't care. There's nothing you can say to make me go.'

And Sev kept glaring at her, fingers twitching at his desk, lip curled in anger. It took him a moment to find his words, even. 'Lily, would you  _please_  control your daughter?'

Hazel smirked. 'It was Mum who told me I didn't have to go to Defence in the first place.'

Really, it was sort of funny. Sev didn't even look surprised. The glare crumbled away, and he let out a long, strangled sigh. He leaned forward, his elbows coming up to rest on his desk, two fingers of each hand rubbing at the sides of his temple. And he just sat there, for long seconds, face in a faint grimace, fingers making slow circles against his head. It looked rather like Hazel gave him a headache.

_I'm afraid I don't feel at all sorry for him. He really should have known that last bit wouldn't have worked. Like I ever wouldn't be on your side, come on._

Yes, quite silly of him.

'Get. Out.'

Hazel blinked at the harsh growl, stared at Sev for a moment. But he was still sitting there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, eyes still closed. Well, all right, then. She popped up to her feet and walked out the door.

_You're lucky he likes me. He'd probably strangle you otherwise._

Hazel just shrugged. She wasn't sure Mum was wrong about that.

* * *

The sound was quiet, muffled by distance and walls in the way, but Hazel still picked up enough to freeze in the middle of the hallway. The hell?

 _Yeah, I hear it too_.

There wasn't, like, a ghost that hung around in bathrooms and cried a lot or something?

_How absurd do you think this place is?_

Right, just curious. That would almost make more sense than some girl having locked herself up in the toilet for a good cry when she should be down in the Great Hall having a pleasant Hallowe'en like all the rest of the normal people.

_You don't hold a monopoly on emotional issues that interfere with one's ability to properly enjoy a major holiday._

She knew that. She was just saying. Should she, er, check it out? Just, it might be really uncomfortable.

_If you want. I'm not going to force you to make nice with crying people._

Hazel hesitated at the door for a long moment. Finally she decided, to hell with it. It wasn't like she had anything else she needed to be doing. It didn't take long to spot the girl at all. On the opposite side of the room from the door, seated on the blue and white tile in a sea of crumpled up tissues, back against the wall, hunched over with her arms wrapped around her ankles. And maybe Mum wasn't so silly for forcing her to wear pants all the time, because she probably wouldn't have thought twice about sitting like that, and she could see up Hermione's skirt from this angle without even trying.

Because, it  _was_  Hermione, see. Hazel couldn't make out her face at the moment, pressed against her legs as it was, but the ridiculously frizzy hair was a giveaway. Not to mention the overloaded book bag under a nearby sink. Yep, definitely Hermione Granger. She'd been in here quite a while too, by the look of it. That was rather a lot of tissue sitting around, and the low sobs pulling at her seemed thin, strained. LIke she'd been crying too long, it hurt, but she couldn't stop.

Which, honestly, Hazel thought was rather silly. She couldn't imagine what could possibly have happened here that was worth crying this much over. Probably shouldn't say that out loud though. All she did say was, 'And here I thought the party was downstairs.'

_This is perhaps not the best moment for sarcasm._

Perhaps not, but she really had no idea what to say. She still hadn't gotten the hang of talking to people in  _normal_  situations. She had absolutely no clue how to handle something like this. In absence of any better ideas, she just defaulted to...well, herself.

_We do need to work on that._

Yeah, she'd noticed.

Anyway, with Hazel's less-than-polite announcement of her presence, Hermione jerked, head snapping up to face her, sending her hair sluggishly swishing. And wow, that looked unpleasant. Eyes probably weren't supposed to be that red. Voice cracking and wavering, she said, 'Go away, Hazel.'

Leaning her hip against a sink, Hazel folded her arms over her stomach even while she gave a careless shrug. 'I suppose I could do that. Or you could tell me what you're doing crying in a toilet when you should be down at the feast.'

Hermione's face scrunched into a glare. Not that she was ever intimidating, but Hazel suspected the effect was weakened even further by the tear tracks worn into her cheeks, the snot running over her lips. Yeah, more vaguely disgusting than it was threatening, really. 'What do  _you_  care?' She then broke eye contact to wipe at her face with a fresh tissue pulled from a little cardboard box at her side.

Well, that was a surprising amount of feeling put into that emphasised pronoun there. She didn't think that much spite was  _quite_  called for, but all right then. 'I don't, I suppose. Just curious.'

'Right.' And that was quite a bit of sarcasm on her voice. Had Hazel  _ever_  heard Hermione even be a little snarky before? Huh. 'Why aren't you down at the feast, then?'

Hazel rolled her eyes. 'I suspect people would make bigger arses of themselves than usual if I went down there.' She couldn't help a sigh of frustration when Hermione just shot her a confused frown through the tangled mess framing her face. 'You see, Hallowe'en lost a bit of its charm for me when I learned it happened to be the day  _my parents were murdered_. Mages tend not to be the most tactful about this Girl-Who-Lived shite in the first place, I can only imagine how idiotic they'd be today. Especially since it also happens to be the tenth anniversary.' She shrugged. 'I've been avoiding people best I could all day.'

'Oh...' Hermione actually looked surprised, maybe even shocked enough out of her little whatever-this-was to edge into guilty. Not a new reaction to the sudden understanding Hazel might not be eager to celebrate this particular holiday — she'd gotten a bit snappish at Tracey this morning, almost thought the silly girl would burst into tears out of shame or something. 'I'm sorry, I didn't think—'

Hazel waved her off. 'It's fine. It's not like I'm all stupid and fragile about it. I'd just rather people not crowd me with it, is all.'

She'd been about to change the subject, but she broke off at the sudden shift in Hermione's expression. One of those distant, thoughtful things. 'I'd never noticed that. Weird.'

'Never noticed what?'

'Well, just...' Hermione broke up sniffle a bit, wiped at her face with another fresh tissue. Then she shot Hazel another guilty look. 'Er, you know, people talk about you a lot.'

Hazel tried to force her face as entirely bland and expressionless as possible.

'Yes, well. I just noticed, whenever people mention...you know,  _that_  Hallowe'en, they never... I mean, it never comes up. It's always about you and You-Know-Who—'

'Jesus Christ,' Hazel said, more groan than proper speech, 'they got you saying it too?'

Hermione jumped at the interruption, sat for a moment blinking at her. 'Did I say something wrong?'

'That You-Know-Who bullocks. I  _hate_  it when people call him that, it's so fucking stupid. I mean, I know everyone does it, I just figured you didn't count.'

Frowning, she muttered, 'What do you mean, I don't count?'

Hazel shrugged. 'Well, you're muggleborn and all.'

_Danger, Will Robinson._

Was that supposed to be as reference to some—

'Oh, of course, I'm a  _muggleborn_.' Hazel flinched at the sudden volume, the heat on her voice. 'Of course I  _don't count_. Silly me, I'd forgotten.'

'Would you get the stick out of your arse, Granger?' Hermione opened her mouth, probably to say something angry, but Hazel went on before she could, her own voice raised a few notches. 'For fuck's sake,  _my mother was a muggleborn._  Don't be an idiot, I didn't mean it like that.'

All the fury ran out of Hermione with impressive speed, leaving her looking...well, like she'd spent all day crying in the toilet. Rather pathetic, honestly, Hazel almost felt guilty for talking to her the way she pretty much always did with pretty much everyone. For a few long seconds, Hermione just stared up at her, slowly blinking. 'Oh.'

'Let me guess.' Hazel forced a smirk onto her face — it took a little effort, since she wasn't feeling it at the moment. 'Those many occasions people are talking about me, that never seems to come up.'

Hermione winced. 'Ah, not really, no. I know I must have read it somewhere, but I'd, ah, forgotten.'

'Really? I wasn't aware you were capable of forgetting anything you'd read anywhere.' Okay, it was very possible this smirk was a bit more genuine. And some of Hermione's fury was back, her face narrowing into a repeat of that less-than-intimidating glare from before. Before she could start snapping at her again, Hazel said, 'Oh, relax. I'm only playing.'

Hermione gave her a doubtful sniff, but didn't argue the point.

'So?'

Yet another tissue against her still leaking nose, Hermione frowned up at her. 'So what?' The words came out all muffled and nasaly, kinda funny.

'I told you why I'm not at the feast. Your turn.'

The short-lived confusion on the girl's face was replaced with yet another ineffective glare. 'I'm not telling you.'

'That doesn't seem fair, does it?'

'You'd make fun of me.'

'When have I ever made fun of you?'

Hermione gave her a rather flat look.

'Okay, excluding the teasing, that doesn't count. I do that to everyone.'

By the odd, crooked set to her face, Hermione wasn't sure whether she should believe that or not. 'You are a pain, you know.'

Hazel nodded. 'I'd been informed, thanks. Trying to work on that.'

'Not going very well, then?'

'Not so far, no.'

'Yeah.' Head falling back to thunk against the stone of the wall, Hermione let out a long, thin sigh. She was silent a long moment, eyes closed, softly breathing. When she did finally speak, it was barely above a whisper, Hazel almost missed it. 'Everybody hates me.'

Hazel blinked. That was... Okay, she officially had no fucking clue what was going on with Hermione. 'I find that very hard to believe.'

'They do, though!' Hermione had opened her eyes again. Wide and bright and insistent on Hazel's, fresh tears welling at the corners. 'He's right, I  _haven't_  any friends. Ron hates me, Parvati and Lavender hate me, Pansy hates me, Zach hates me, Draco  _really_  hates me. Even  _you_  hate me, when it's not Hallowe'en, apparently.'

'Okay, well...' Still more confused than anything, Hazel pondered over that list of names for a moment. 'Okay. I doubt Ron hates you, but he's an idiot, so I'm not sure why you'd care if he did. I don't know if I've ever spoken to the other Gryffindor girls — well, maybe Fay once or twice — but, yeah, I can't say one way or the other. Pansy's a racist bitch, can't imagine why you'd care about her opinion. I'm not convinced there's anyone Zacharias  _doesn't_  hate at least a little bit. I doubt Draco really hates anyone, he doesn't put that much thought into it, but he  _is_  a little cunt, so that's all that is. Oh, and, I don't hate you either.' She paused for a second. 'I think that was everyone.'

And now Hermione was giving her another look. Softened a bit by her eyes leaking again, that might be why Hazel couldn't quite read it properly. Offended wasn't quite the right word. Incredulous? No, that wasn't it either. Disbelieving, but in a hurt, angry sort of way? Was there a word for that? Anyway, she gave Hazel that look for a moment, before, her voice low and hard, wavering just slightly with a repressed sob, ' _Yes_ , you  _do_. Don't lie to me, I'm not an idiot. I know you do.'

It was kinda weird, how Hermione could be being all prideful and self-congratulating and all, while at the same time projecting feelings of hatred onto other people. Didn't seem to quite fit, when she thought about it.

But anyway, 'Apparently you are an idiot, because I don't.' Hermione was opening her mouth to snap something at her again, so Hazel again spoke over her. 'Really, Hermione, I don't. Sure, I find you a bit irritating most of the time, but that's not the same thing. To put it bluntly, I don't care about you enough to legitimately hate you. I mean, I think hating someone has got to be an active thing, you know. It takes a lot of energy, and a lot of thinking about them, and how awful they are, and blah blah. I could probably count on my fingers the number of times it's occurred to me to remember you exist when you're not in the room at the time. You're just not important enough to me to hate. No offense,' she added after a second. Because, well, that did sound sort of bad when she said it out loud...

Somewhat to her surprise, after a short second of bemused silence, Hermione burst into laughter. Or, at least, Hazel  _thought_  it was laughter. It kinda sounded like laughter, but her eyes were still leaking, and the sound was thin and tight and gasping, as though half-choked by sobs. It was the weirdest thing.

_What, you've never seen someone laugh and cry at the same time?_

Well, no, of course she had. She'd done it herself, actually. No, now that she thought about, she'd  _only_  done it herself, never seen someone else doing it. It was very strange from the outside.

_That's how I feel about Hermione most of the time._

Yeah, and was Mum going to be explaining that at any point?

_Nothing. She just reminds me a bit of myself when I was in first year._

Except without the absurd wandless magic and the antisocial Slytherin friend.

_Yes, exactly. I'm told I was a bit intolerable to be around until second, maybe even third year, after I'd gotten some coaching in how not to make a nuisance of myself. I was more or less presentable by the time the war picked up. After that I was a bit more, well—_

Warrior woman dark witch scary.

_Well, I wouldn't put it that way, but I guess._

Hazel checked back in to her surroundings to find Hermione was still giggle/sniffling against her legs, so she probably wouldn't be missed for another moment. Anyway, coaching? She meant, what, pureblood etiquette lessons?

_Yes, I managed to convince Narcissa Black to teach me to not be so aggressively offensive._

Wait, Narcissa Black like Andi's little sister? The one who was Lady Malfoy now? The unfortunate mother of the blondest, cuntiest Slytherin in her year?

_You do seem to like that word._

It's fun to say. Cunt cunt cunt, Cunty McCuntingstein.

_Okay, then. You couldn't have picked up the segments of my vocabulary that are more appropriate for use in polite company?_

She'd gotten those too. But she wasn't in polite company right now, she could think whatever she wanted in the privacy of her own head.

_Fine, fine. And yes, I do mean the little cunt's mum._

Tee hee, little cunt. How did that work anyway? Hazel wouldn't think a young Narcissa Malfoy would be open to...well, much of anything to do with muggleborn Gryffindors, really.

_A trade. Everyone knew I was top of my class, and I hadn't known wandless magic was unusual, so I hadn't thought to hide it. In exchange for her help with my manners, I offered to help her with anything she was having trouble with, and try to teach her a bit of wandless magic._

Oh. Did she learn any?

_It took a while, but she picked up a little eventually. She was never as good at it as Sev was, and you're already better than either of them managed to get, last I checked. But maybe Sev's been working on it, I don't know._

Wait, really? They'd picked it up that slowly?

_It helps to start early. We cheated._

Hmm. That must not have been very fun. Getting etiquette lessons from Narcissa, she meant. Andi had been bad enough, and she thought Hazel was a person.

_She was a little bitch about it at first, yes. Though, eventually, I did manage to change her mind about the person bit._

Wait, wait, wait. Mum was saying  _the Lady Malfoy_  wasn't really a pureblood supremacist?

_In the literal, mudbloods-aren't-real-mages sense, no. She's still a right little snob, though. It is possible she was re-converted, I don't know, we haven't spoken since sixth year._

Only sixth year? What happened?

_We had a— We stopped our lessons, yes._

...

_Hazel, stop trying to read my mind._

She was just curious, was all! Was being curious against the law or something?

_No, but using mind magic to invade someone's privacy without their consent is._

Oh, please. And like hitching a ride on Hazel the way Mum was was perfectly legal.

_That is so not the point._

It was Hazel's point. And what was so bad about it Mum didn't want her to know? She meant, did she really think Hazel would take it too badly?

_No. I just don't want to give you ammunition._

Give her...ammunition?

_It's nothing, forget about it._

'Oh my god.'

_Hazel, no._

'Oh. Oh, wow.'

_Hazel..._

She knew what happened. She got it.

_What did we say about jumping to conclusions?_

She was totally right though. Mum  _so_  had sex with Narcissa Malfoy.

_Yes, see, that right there, jumping to conclusions, it's wild._

That wasn't actually a denial.

_I'm not going to dignify this lunacy with a proper response._

And that certainly wasn't because it was hard to lie convincingly while in direct contact with another mind.

_God dammit, Hazel._

Seriously, how the hell did  _that_  happen?

_If I knew that, I would tell you. Actually, no, I bloody well wouldn't, but that's not the point._

Was it possible to not know how you ended up shagging someone? She only asked because it wasn't like she had experience in the matter and, damn, she was curious.

_It's complicated. Things are complicated. It was really fucking weird. It happened one day, and then it happened some other days. For about a month, I think. And then we had a terrible row over nothing — we fought about nothing a lot, in fact — and we never spoke again. The end, subject closed._

So, not only had Mum been fucking Narcissa Malfoy, but she'd been  _hate-fucking_  Narcissa Malfoy.

_Oh my god, Hazel, how does an eleven-year-old even know what that is..._

By being hooked up to Mum's brain, obviously.

 _I am going to hell. There'd been little hope already, but now I am definitely,_ _ **definitely**_   _going to hell._

Mum was being silly. She didn't even believe in hell.

_We're done. Go back to ineptly consoling Hermione. I'm pretty sure she's been trying to get your attention for a few seconds now._

But this conversation was way more interesting.

_I'm not talking about this with you, Hazel._

But—

_No. Hermione. Now._

'Hazel! Hazel, come on!''

Starting back to reality, Hazel blinked, shook her head to herself. Oh, wow, blinking actually felt really weird, like her eyes had been open so long they'd gotten far too dry. And Hermione was a  _lot_  closer than she'd been a second ago. She was standing right in front of her, her hands so tight on her shoulders it almost hurt, salty lines run down her face and a glimmer of tears still lingering in her eyes. Which Hazel could see pretty damn well, considering Hermione's face was only a couple centimetres away from hers. Hazel just stared at the other girl for a second, once again at a total loss for what to say. 'Erm...hi?'

Hermione let out a thick sigh, the tension running out of her fingers. She didn't quite let go of Hazel, actually slumping further toward her, her forehead coming down against Hazel's chest just under her chin. Which...okay, then? 'Jesus, Hazel, you scared me.'

'Er, how did I scare you, exactly?'

'You weren't moving, and I was talking, and you weren't...' Trailing off, Hermione was still for a moment before leaning back again, meeting Hazel's eyes with a rather confused look on her reddened, splotchy face. 'Do you have epilepsy?'

Hazel frowned back at her. 'Ah, no? Can mages even have epilepsy?'

Taking a couple steps away from her, literally throwing her hands in the air, Hermione shouted, 'Well I don't know! It just looked like you were having a seizure was all.'

A single eyebrow went racing up her forehead. Hazel glanced down at her own legs, still holding her propped up against the sink, then looked back up. Her voice low and dry, 'I can see why.'

And Hermione glared at her again. 'An absence seizure,  _obviously_ , you, you... Argh!' Hermione stomped toward the back corner of the room, little bits of tissue fleeing before her, and planted herself within reach of the wall. And she stood there, back to Hazel, silently fuming.

Mostly, Hazel was just confused. Were absence seizures even a thing?

_Yes. You probably scared the hell out of her — it looks like you were out far longer than they should last. Probably shouldn't let yourself get so distracted talking to me around other people. I doubt you would enjoy getting sent to Pomfrey, especially on suspicion you have epilepsy. There's no definitive test for that, you know._

Well, then maybe Mum shouldn't be so damn cagey about the  _absolutely fascinating_  reality that she'd had a sexual relationship with Narcissa Malfoy of all people. Hazel thought it was perfectly understandable she'd gotten a little bit distracted!

In response, the part of her mind Mum lived just went cold and dark, like it always did when she closed herself off as best she could, retreating from the present moment. Which Hazel just took to mean she was absolutely right, and Mum shouldn't have bothered dodging the question, because  _obviously_  she was going to get distracted by that, she should have just admitted it, really.

But anyway, she was supposed to be ineptly consoling Hermione. 'Er...sorry? I really am fine, I was just...thinking. About things.' Oh, yes, very convincing. No shock she was Sorted into Slytherin, was it, with the great misdirection skills she was showing here, first class.

Hermione just sighed, a shake of her head sending her mane of chestnut curls shuddering in a chaotic jumble. 'It's fine, forget it. I was being silly.'

'Oh. Okay.' Well, that was easy enough. Hazel took a second to think back to what they'd been talking about before she'd spaced out for a bit there, and a few things came clicking together all at once. 'Oh! I think I might know how to solve your irritating people problem.'

It took a moment for Hermione to respond, and even then she just glared over her shoulder at Hazel, dropping a flat, 'What are you talking about?'

'See, I don't think it's that everyone hates you.' Really, Hazel couldn't imagine a person horrible enough  _everyone_  hated them. That just seemed improbable. 'You're being very rude, you know. Constantly.' Hermione's glare shifted into a slightly more confused-looking one, so she added, 'By magical British standards, I mean. It's not the same as it is in muggle Britain, you know, these things.'

The glare faded away entirely, replaced with a look of pure confusion. Her eyes tipped up to the ceiling, slightly unfocused. 'The rules are different.'

Hazel nodded. 'Yup.'

'So, you're telling me I've been being unspeakably rude to everyone I've met since I've gotten here.'

'Well, I doubt the other muggleborns know the difference, and most of the people from Common Houses probably don't give a damn. But, yeah, pretty much.'

Hermione turned back to face her, apparently to more properly give her a baffled frown. 'What are you talking about, Common Houses?'

'You know, Hogwarts being what it is, most of the students are nobility. There are plenty of exceptions, of course — just off the top of my head, Millicent and Draco's bookends are from Common Houses, and in Gryffindor there's Ron and Lily and...' Hazel frowned to herself. '...maybe Lavender? I know there's a Common House of Brown  _and_  a Noble House of Brown, I don't know which one she's from. By the way she acts, I'm gonna guess she's not noble, but I don't know for sure.'

And Hermione didn't look any less confused. 'I'm still not certain what you're talking about.'

'Well, okay.' Biting her lip, Hazel tried to figure out how exactly to explain this to someone who had little experience with the concept.

_Britain does still have noble families on the nonmagical side, you know._

Technically. They didn't have any real power anymore, beyond just having money, and people didn't really think about them on a day-to-day basis. The concepts weren't directly comparable. Hell, muggle Britain didn't even have Houses. But anyway, 'Ah, just think of it like a pyramid, okay, everyone's somewhere on the pyramid depending on what family they're born into, and their position in that family. How you're supposed to talk to someone depends on their relative positions in that pyramid.' Hazel looked down, refocusing on Hermione — she'd gone into her classroom-face, all still and intensely focused, it was actually kind of adorable. 'Okay, to make a point, who would you guess is the person in this building who is the highest on the pyramid? Like, on paper, not necessarily in practice.'

Hermione had an answer instantly. 'The Headmaster. He's also High Enchanter which, if I understand correctly, is the closest thing magical Britain has to a head of state.'

Unfortunately, it was also a wrong answer. 'Nope. You do understand correctly, but nope. The High Enchanter is accorded honorific address, but only as a courtesy, and only while physically on the floor of the Wizengamot. Outside of the Wizengamot, he's the Master of a Common House, and a tiny and poor one at that. He's one of only a handful of commoners to ever be made High Enchanter, in fact.'

Looking somehow both surprised and annoyed, Hermione said, 'You might as well just tell me, because I'm not going to guess.'

Hazel smirked. 'It's me.'

And now it was just annoyed. She was trying to glare, actually, but it still wasn't the least bit intimidating, she should work on that. 'If you're just going to play around with me—'

'I'm not. It is me. While I may only hold the title because I'm the last living member, I  _am_  Her Grace the Lady Elizabeth of the Most Noble House of Potter. I could take my seat on the Wizengamot right now if I wanted to. I mean, they're not likely to take me very seriously, but I  _could_ , which is the point.'

'But...but...' Hermione's mouth worked in silence for a few moments, her eyes wide, the steady light from the enchanted lamps dancing as her irises twitched back in forth by barely noticeable measures. Finally, she said, far too loud for the enclosed space, 'But you're  _eleven!'_

'So? There is no age of majority in magical British law. I've held all rights and privileges as the Lady Potter since I was fifteen months old, whether I was capable of exercising them or not.' Hazel felt her smirk twitch wider. 'Isn't that a scary thought? Me, participating in the legislative and judicial process.' If she were inclined to care, she might have taken offense at the way Hermione winced. 'It's inevitable, too — I'll be taking my seat when I feel like it, probably in my twenties or thirties, and nobody can do a thing about that. Technically, I'm  _already_  participating in our government, in the sense that I picked my current proxy, back when I was seven.'

And Hermione looked suitably horrified by the thought. She had to admit, the way the Wizengamot worked could easily seem absurd and barbaric to someone used to Parliament. Or, anyone with a brain, really. ' _Seven_.'

Hazel nodded. Then she frowned a little, shrugged. 'Well, technically Andi picked her — Holly Glanwvyl, by the way, that's her name — but there was paperwork I had to sign. Anyway, point is, as a Lady of a Noble House, I technically outrank everyone here. Neville's probably second, being the heir to a Noble and Most Ancient House. And then down the line after that, depending on the relative influence and wealth of everyone's families, it's complicated.'

'So...' Hermione was silent for a long moment, just staring at her, her face oddly blank. 'You're telling me I more or less fell into some fancy school for the children of the aristocracy pulled straight out of the  _Elizabethan era_.'

She shrugged. 'Sounds about right.'

Her eyes falling closed, Hermione let out another drawn-out sigh. After a short pause, her lungs fully emptied to the point the last bit of it had come out creaky and weird, she snapped in a breath through her nose, looking back up to meet Hazel's eyes again. 'Then why do you act...well, the way you do? I can't imagine you're being any more polite than I am.'

'I don't cross as many lines as you might think — I know where they are, see, I don't touch the  _seriously_  bad stuff. But yes, I haven't really bothered with the expected proprieties. I irritate people on purpose far more than I should, honestly. But, I'm the Lady of a Noble House, not to mention Wizard Jesus, basically. I may be a bit awful at times, but they're not likely to socially punish their precious Girl-Who-Lived, are they? Point is, I can get away with it. But you're muggleborn. You can't.'

And there Hermione went being adorable again, all pouting at her. That was really throwing her off, these moments Hermione had now and again, it was almost unsettling. In her experience, Hermione Granger wasn't adorable. Weird. Also not fair, being adorable. She'd noticed she caved to adorableness easier than she would like. (See: Dora, basically all the time.) Might explain why Hazel was going out of her way to be nice for no real reason, though — had she subconsciously thought Hermione was adorable before? Hmm. Anyway, she was saying, 'That is stupid and unfair.'

'Well...yeah. Yeah, it is.' She felt her lips twitch into a smirk. 'If you really expected the world to be fair, Hermione, maybe you should have been Sorted into Hufflepuff.'

Hermione let out a sharp huff and rolled her eyes, expressing her opinion well enough without actually saying anything. 'You were about to offer to teach me how to not offend people, right? That's where this was going.'

'Yep.' With a somewhat awkward roll of her back, Hazel shoved at the sink with her hip, pushing forward to stand upright. 'I was about to sneak down to the kitchens. We can have our first lesson now, if you wanted to come with.'

Hermione didn't take any convincing. Though, really, that could just be because she was almost certainly hungry.

Unfortunately, they never did make it to the kitchens. Turning the corner down the hall, Hazel walked face-first into a wall of the most putrid odour she'd ever had the misfortune to inhale. It hit so sudden and so hard she was brought up short, nearly bending double as her eyes watered at the stinging aura of filth and decay, her stomach roiling at her throat. She was nearly sick right there in the middle of the hallway. A second later, she realised the assault on her senses freezing her in her tracks was the only reason she hadn't walked face-first into the source of it.

Squinting through the acidic tears quickly springing into existence, Hazel stared blankly at grey-green flesh, thick and scabbed and even leaking yellowish fluid in a few places, fucking gross, a twelve-foot-tall mound of stomach-turning malevolence. Okay. That was a mountain troll. Right?

_Yes. Yes, it is._

The bloody fuck was a mountain troll doing in the middle of the third-floor hallway?

_I have no idea. Want me to take over?_

Nah, Hazel could handle it.

 _Move, quick_.

Mum had the right of it there — the troll had been blinking dumbly at them, its disproportionately tiny eyes mirroring the surprise in its disproportionately tiny brain, but its arm was already moving, massive club of fetid wood quickly rising. Hazel scrambled backward, dragging Hermione with her by one hand at the collar of her robes. The club came down with a bone-shuddering crash, missing Hermione by inches, chips of wood flinging into the air, tiny cracks spreading across the granite tile.

The near brush with death seemed to have shocked Hermione out of whatever fugue she'd been in for a second there: she was suddenly screaming, high and loud and piercing, making Hazel's teeth ache. Perfect.

Hazel pushed Hermione back behind her, fingers almost catching in the cloud of brownish frizziness, then whirled back to face the troll. It was lifting the club again, stepping forward, moving to swipe at her, roaring at her low and thick and almost weirdly hoarse. She stepped back and to the side out of the way easy enough — it had speed proportional to its size, but it couldn't change directly very quickly, once she saw where the blow was going it wasn't hard. It swung again, and again, but Hazel kept stepping out of the way, the club going wide to crash against the floor and walls. No, that wouldn't work. That angle was wrong again. Eh, not quite. Wrong. Nope.

_Hermione!_

Already positioned wide of the next swing, Hazel twitched at the mental shout, glanced around to spot Hermione. She was standing to Hazel's left, against the wall — and, she noticed, directly in the path of the current lateral swing. Hazel's wand fell into her hand, magic burst to life in her veins, the club was whipping by inches from her face, she had an instant, her wand was pointed at Hermione, and the incantation tumbled over her lips— ' _Gemmeam!'_  —her unfriendly wand yanked power from her hard and sudden enough her hand stung, she'd never put this much into this charm before, but she felt the magic catch, an almost tactile  _snap_  as it fell into place.

A sparkling, crystalline hemisphere a brilliant orange-yellow appeared around Hermione, just in time to intercept the wooden club. It hit with a low, reverberating tone, the air shuddering as though with the strike of a gong, incandescent white cracks stitching across the surface of the shield, but it held. Hazel didn't hesitate a moment, gathered a swell of energy in her off hand, forced it out into the world with a forward  _push_. The banishing charm caught the club, temporarily halted against the shield, brought it slamming against the wall above Hermione's head — before the troll could move, Hazel cast a sticking charm through her wand, as powerful as she could make it, all along the club and nearly to the troll's elbow.

Her right arm had gone rather numb now, tingly as though fallen asleep, but it worked: the troll roared, randomly swiping at the air with its free hand, jerking and twitching and thumping, but the club, and the hand attached to it, remained firmly fixed to the wall. Hazel watched its other hand flail for a bit, waiting for just the proper moment, in a short moment banishing and sticking it to the wall on the troll's opposite side, trapping it exposed. She started walking closer, but then had to jump out of the way when the bloody thing nearly kicked her. A couple more sticking charms to its feet took care of that problem.

She stood as close to the thing as she dared — the thing smelled bloody  _awful_ , her stomach could just barely suffer it — and watched its vile little head, twisting and shaking and roaring, waiting, her wand aimed calm and steady, waiting for the proper moment.

Trolls did have considerable magical resistance. But, then so did humans —  _all_  living things had some degree of magical resistance, exactly what degree varying from species to species, and even individually. When people said trolls had exceptional magical resistance, they really meant their  _skin_  was magically resistant, and even then only to certain things. It couldn't be cut, it couldn't be pierced, it couldn't be burned. But, oh, just for random examples of no immediate significance whatsoever, banishing and sticking charms? Perfectly fine. They did have very good defences, yes, but they weren't dragons, not even close. There were weaknesses.

When the moment came, without an instant of hesitation, she cast, ' _Mutilā.'_

Trolls did have considerable magical resistance, but it wasn't perfect. So, when the piercing white spellglow of Hazel's curse zipped between the troll's teeth and hit the roof of its mouth, the wall behind its head was painted with thick crimson blood and little bits of pink-grey anyway.

Ew. That was  _really_  gross, actually.

_Not bad work, Hazel. I would have picked a different curse to finish it off, though._

Well, it was pretty messy and disgusting, but she couldn't exactly cast the killing curse yet.

_No, not what I meant. That was a dark curse. It will leave traces any competent adult mage will be able to feel. And, despite how below your abilities most of your classes are, most of the professors here are plenty competent._

Oh, good point. But it wasn't like anyone was here to see her do it. Well, Hermione, yes, but she doubted Hermione knew enough to identify one random dark curse. She'd be in trouble with Hermione anyway, what with the age-inappropriate ability she'd just demonstrated, but she was fine on the dark magic angle. Anyway, she'd just have to flee the scene of the crime before—

'Miss— Oh, my heavens!'

Hazel winced. Dammit.

McGonagall came around the corner, a hand held firm against her chest, looking very shaky, her habitually stern face uncharacteristically pale and absent. She stared at the troll for long, dumbfounded moments — especially the gore covering the wall around the remains of its head. Hazel noticed a few glances at the wand still in her hand. Finally, her voice thin and shaking, she said, 'Miss Potter, did... Did you do this?'

For a second, Hazel just frowned, working at her lip with her teeth, trying to decide if there was any point to lying her way out of this. A quick glance at her own wand, at Hermione looking dazed and, unbelievably, guilty, yeah, that wasn't happening. 'It would appear I did, yes.'

McGonagall didn't seem particularly impressed with her response, giving her a sharp look, but she apparently decided to ignore it. 'How did... Miss Potter, that is—' She broke off with another glance at the troll, suddenly looking a bit queasy. 'That  _was_  a fully grown mountain troll.'

'I had noticed that, actually.'

' _How?'_

Hazel shrugged. 'My mother could have done it, when she was my age.'

With another sharp look, her voice low and just edging into angry, McGonagall said, 'Have you been  _intentionally underperforming_  in class?'

Oh. Er. There was really nothing to say to that besides, 'Yes, ma'am.'

On the one hand, McGonagall didn't manage to get into scolding her, as it looked like she'd been about to do, which was good. On the other, she broke off because Sev and Dumbledore suddenly came walking around the corner, which was bad. 'Ah, Minerva,' Dumbledore said, with that slightly absent smile of his, 'I see you have quite effectively dealt with our troll problem.' Smile fading somewhat, 'Rather more violently than I would like, but what's done is done.'

Unsurprisingly, McGonagall brow dipped into a frown with the light chastisement. Because, well, fuck the bloody troll. Thing was stomping around in a building filled with children, its life wasn't even on the list of priorities. But, she seemingly decided to ignore that too. 'Oh, it wasn't  _me_  who killed the beast, Albus. Miss Potter seems to be rather more talented than she has led us to believe.'

'Hey, now,' Hazel said, jolting at the cold glare Sev immediately speared her with, 'can't really lay that all on me now, can you? I mean, it's not like you  _asked_  if I already knew any magic. You just assumed I didn't.'

While the other two professors turned questioning looks on her, Sev, slowly, covered his face with one hand. Ten seconds in her presence, and she'd already given him a headache. It was McGonagall who spoke first, voice shrunk to a thin hiss. 'You're lucky you weren't  _killed_. What were you  _thinking_ , you—? Why didn't you stay with the rest of the students? You—'

'It was me, Professor.'

As one, all four of them turned dumbfounded gazes on Hermione, still unsteadily standing in the troll's shadow. When some seconds passed without a word, Hermione staring at her shoes shamefaced, Dumbledore prompted, 'Miss Granger?'

'She came after me,' Hermione said, her voice still shaky — likely from that almost being crushed to death by a troll thing. 'I, I thought I could handle it. I'd read about trolls, you see. But I couldn't—' Hermione peeked up at the troll, then quickly glanced down, her face paling a few extra shades. 'I didn't know what— Hazel came after me, and... If she hadn't found me, I'd be dead now.'

Well, that was just bloody stupid. The hell was she doing?

_She put together the professors announced there was a troll in the school. She's trying to cover for you._

Yeah but, seriously, why? She didn't  _need_  to be covered. 'That's funny. I don't remember Hermione getting hit in the head.' Hermione flushed, shoulders rising a little. 'Somebody should probably bring her to go see Pomfrey.'

'Thank you, Miss Potter,' Sev said, in that threatening, fully-audible whisper he had a way with. 'If you hadn't thought to point it out for us, I'm not sure I would have seen through the practised cold manipulation of a  _silly eleven-year-old girl.'_  And there Hermione went, going even more red. Looked uncomfortable.

In a flat, warning tone, Dumbledore muttered, 'Severus.'

Sev whirled to face him, voice rising to a snarl. ' _Honestly_ , Dumbledore, don't try to tell me even you believed that tripe for a single second! She's  _obviously_  lying, though for the life of me I can't imagine why.'

'Gryffindors,' Hazel said with a minute shrug. 'Probably some ridiculous honour thing, beats me.'

Sev wasn't directly facing her at the moment, and it was so small, she could be imagining it. But Hazel thought she saw his lips twitch, a smirk struggling to survive before being ruthlessly suppressed.

The glare Hermione was shooting her, though, that was unmistakable.

Before anyone could ask a likely asinine question, Hazel got it out of the way. 'We ran into it on accident, all right? Didn't even know there was a troll in the castle. I was out taking a walk just because, and I heard someone crying in a toilet. Checked inside, and oh, it's Hermione, hi there, Hermione. We talked about what was bothering her for a while, and we were just leaving to go down to the kitchens. And suddenly, oh no, there's this huge troll in the hallway. But, no problem, I just killed the damn thing.'

A bit of troll brain chose that moment to slip off wherever it was hanging from, falling to the floor with a loud, squelching splat.

Hazel wrinkled her nose. 'Ew.  _Anyway_ , I killed it, that's it, the end. Can I go now?'

By the look on the professors' faces, that didn't seem very likely. 'You were on a walk?' Dumbledore said, his face the picture of innocent confusion. Except his eyes, anyway, the eyes were wrong. Too sharp, too bright, staring at her with far too much interest, as though she were some alien creature he'd never seen before — fascinating, but one that might eat his face off at any moment. 'Hazel — and forgive me, my girl — but why weren't you enjoying the feast with the rest of your classmates?'

Putting as much disdain on her voice as humanly possible, Hazel drawled, 'I didn't feel particularly motivated to celebrate the day Lord Voldemort murdered my parents. Silly of me, I know.'

Okay, that time Sev  _definitely_  smirked, she wasn't imagining that one. But that might have been at the way McGonagall practically had a heart attack at the sound of the word  _Voldemort_. Just, god damn, mages were so fucking ridiculous sometimes.

That was pretty much that. There was a little bit of low muttering between the professors, some argument she didn't catch all of. Then McGonagall took twenty points from Slytherin for Hazel faking being a normal person — not how she put it, but it was what she meant — to the entire staff for two months. She immediately followed that with giving Slytherin fifty points for Hazel killing a fully-grown mountain troll all by herself, saving the life of another student in the process. So, thirty points net, more than she'd gotten the whole term so far. Not that she cared, the whole point thing was bloody stupid, but whatever. She also gave Gryffindor fifteen points just because — when Hermione protested she hadn't actually done anything, McGonagall made up some excuse about open-mindedness and friendships crossing House boundaries, blah blah blah, she was obviously just giving Hermione points because it was Hermione and she could. McGonagall wasn't so transparent about picking favourites as Sev was, but it'd already become quite clear she liked Hermione.

Then their little group broke up, McGonagall escorting Hermione to wherever it was the Gryffindors lived, Dumbledore going off to do whatever it was he did with his time, and Sev leading her back toward the dungeons. Escorting the two of them to their dorms had actually been Sev's idea — he'd said something about making sure they made it back without getting into any other absurd life-threatening situations. Hazel was pretty sure he just wanted a word.

And she hadn't guessed wrong. They'd barely even turned the corner, the other three out of sight, before he glared back at her. 'Honestly, Lily, running off to go troll hunting? Not exactly subtle.'

Hazel couldn't help smiling. 'Actually, I killed the troll, Mum didn't do a thing. And I wasn't lying — we did just run into it. Almost literally, in fact.'

At the first sentence, Sev's normal smooth, dramatic pace hitched for an instant, nearly freezing in place. He was silent for a moment once she'd finished, apparently mulling that over. 'Be that as it may. You can't be going off getting yourself into trouble, Miss Potter. It would be...unwise, to be sticking your nose places it doesn't belong. This year in particular.'

'Why? What's going on?'

Sev glanced back at her, just for a second before looking forward again. 'You remember, your first evening here, that Dumbledore gave a ridiculous cryptic warning involving a corridor on the third floor?'

Hazel frowned. 'Yeah, that was weird. What the hell was that about?'

'I'm afraid I cannot say. No, Miss Potter,' he said, raising his voice slightly to cut above her objection, 'I  _cannot_  say. I am bound by oath and contract.'

'Oh.' Verbal oaths  _could_  be enforced with spells, but they generally weren't very effective. Spoken words, and the thoughts behind them as they're spoken, are far too malleable, the underlying intent open to interpretation. Magically-enforced contracts composed in full legalese, on the other hand, were  _very_  serious business. It was best not to play around with them. 'Is there anything you can tell me, then? I mean, I assume that's why you decided I needed an escort.'

Sev gave a light sniff. 'Nothing of substance. However, I can tell you two things.' Just past the concealed entrance to the dorms, Sev spun on his heel, coming to a stop. He stared down his nose at her, eyes narrowed, cold and deadly as daggers. 'Stay away from the forbidden corridor. Stay away from Quirrel. Otherwise, simply be on your guard. I can't be certain what else he may be planning, nor whether it involves you.'

'Ah.' Her natural impulse was to smirk, but Hazel buried it, instead trying to pull her face into something as innocent and adorable as she could possibly manage. Probably failed, Hazel wasn't certain she  _could_  look innocent. 'So, it's actually a  _good_  thing I've been skipping Defence, when you think about it.'

With a final irritated scowl, Sev turned and walked away.

* * *

The next day, when Hermione joined the three of them at their usual table in the library, the only answer Hazel had to Daphne's questioning frown was a helpless shrug.

* * *

'Could I have a word, Potter?'

For a long moment, Hazel could only blink up at him in confusion. She was quite certain this was the first time Blaise Zabini had ever directly spoken to her. After far too many awkward seconds, she snapped out of it, slowly folded the book in her lap shut. 'Ah, sure? What about?'

'Not here.' Without any further explanation, Blaise turned on his heel, and started off for the door out of the dorms. Hazel frowned at his back for a second. Then she sighed to herself, and stood to follow him.

Walking out into the dungeon hallway, Mum thought,  _Be careful, Hazel._

What could Blaise do to her anyway? She'd been scolded rather severely for intentionally underperforming in class, so she'd sort of just...stopped. By now, everyone knew she could do far more magic than any first year, and that without even touching her wand. Flitwick actually had her doing practical lessons wandlessly just because. Blaise  _was_  good, near the top of their class, but he couldn't hurt her if he tried. And that was assuming he even wanted to try — he struck Hazel as more awkward than nefarious.

_He could be better at acting than you are at reading him. And, don't forget, he is a lilin. All of them have wandless fire magic. Very impressive wandless fire magic._

Well, yes, but couldn't they not use that until they were older? Like, maybe by third or fourth year he'd be dangerous, but she thought she'd read lilin couldn't do that stuff until at least puberty.

As Mum hesitated, Hazel followed Blaise down the hall, shortly turning into one of the many unused classrooms seemingly littered all over the building. Old potions lab, by the look of the tables and counters and cabinets, but the place was empty of anything but dust. Finally,  _I think you're right, now that I think about it. But we don't know exactly when lilin puberty is. He could be old enough already._

True. She still didn't think Blaise intended anything bad. Though, she couldn't entirely help a suspicious tilt of a frown when, the second the door closed behind them, he cast a few basic locking and silencing charms over the thing. Hazel could do better, but it was still rather impressive, and over-cautious, for an eleven-year-old. 'Maybe you should tell me what this is about.'

His wand vanishing up his sleeve, Blaise turned to give her a rather sheepish smile. 'Yeah, sorry. I just figured you didn't want anybody listening in. Far as I can tell, nobody knows.'

She frowned. 'Nobody knows...what? Do we have secrets? That would be pretty hard, considering we've never before exchanged full sentences. Getting through Potions on only gestures, really, which is actually kinda impressive, Sev should give us extra credit.'

'Did...' Blaise looked oddly shocked, his eyes spread wide enough the contrast against his skin was far more striking than usual. Sounding rather incredulous, he said, 'Did you just call Professor Snape "Sev"?'

'Well, yeah,' Hazel said, shrugging to herself, 'I do that.'

'And...he's okay with that?'

She smirked. 'Nope. Hates it, actually.'

Blaise gave her a look, one of those flat, what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you-you're-totally-insane looks, for a few seconds before shaking it off. Literally, he shook his head and everything. 'Anyway, setting aside your apparent deathwish, yeah, sorry about all that...' He waved a hand in a circle, frowning. '...awkwardly being silent business. It's just, I had absolutely no idea which clan you're from. Still don't, in fact. That makes things complicated, you understand. My mother looked into it, and she couldn't figure it out either, so she finally gave me permission to approach you anyway. So, sorry about that.'

'Oh...kay?' This explaining himself thing was only making her more confused. 'The bloody fuck are you talking about?'

He quirked an eyebrow at her, looking nothing but confused with her confusion. 'Er. You know. Politics. Without knowing your clan, I couldn't know if I would be putting my foot in it, and... Well, forgive me for stumbling around like an idiot, okay?  _Nobody_  had any clue! Mother says there's  _no record at all_ , and you'd think we would know if the Girl-Who-Lived was one of us!' Blaise broke off with another odd frown. 'How the hell did that happen, anyway?'

With no warning, entirely unexpected, that familiar wave of dizziness swept over her, and Hazel was yanked away from her own body. Her vision narrowed slightly as Mum frowned at Blaise, her thoughts too sharp and intensely focused for Hazel to pick up what was going on. 'You're mistaken. I'm not one of the People.'

And now Blaise was giving her a  _very_  odd look — similar to the what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you one, but with extra shades of why-are-you-lying-this-is-stupid. 'Yes. You are.'

'I think I would know if I were.'

He blinked. 'I would think so too, but  _you are_. I can feel it, I wouldn't mess that up. You do carry the Song. Nightsong, specifically.'

Okay, what the hell was going on?

_Blaise is convinced you're a lilin, for some reason._

Oh... Wasn't that, well, impossible?

 _Yes._  'You don't understand, Zabini. That's impossible. People have told me about my mother. Lily Evans was definitely muggleborn, and she definitely gave birth to me. I can't possibly be one of you.'

'Oh, that... Huh.' Blaise crossed his arms over his chest, frown cutting deep over his eyes. 'I mean, you  _are_. I'm not mistaken about that, you are Nightsong. But, that  _is_  really weird. I mean, if you're not mistaken about—'

'I'm not.'  _I can bloody well remember my daughter being born, all right._

To be fair, he didn't know Mum was talking from personal experience.

_Still, this is a bit annoying._

'Yeah, that is weird, then. I mean... Well, your mother could have been  _Zicanći_. I don't know if that's ever happened before — we've always thought  _Zicanći_  were sterile, because they never hear the Calling. But, it  _might_  be possible if—'

'Shut up.' Mum held one of Hazel's hands palm-out, staring blankly down at the floor. Her thoughts had lost that intense focus they'd had a second ago, instead a mass of chaos Hazel had even less hope of interpreting. 'That word. You mean Flightless.'

Blaise nodded, a trace of a smile touching his lips. 'Yeah, that's the word in English. They're like squibs, you see, in that they don't hear the Song properly at all. Most of them can still do normal magic, though. It's, erm...' Suddenly looking a little awkward, Blaise shifted in place a little, shooting Hazel an oddly apologetic look. 'Well, it's... They can't really do anything. They can't... Well, they're usually sent off to live with magical families. It would be... _unusual_ , for one to end up with a muggle family, but not impossible. Your mother could have been  _Zicanći_.'

Mum was clearly thinking about that, images and words whirling about too quickly for Hazel to follow. She caught glimpses of her grandparents, Petunia, something about blood, talking to Sev about Healing, something about tests she didn't catch what exactly, an unfamiliar building, a brightly smiling face she didn't recognise— 'And that's possible. For Flightless to have lilin children.'

'Well, I don't know that it's ever happened before,' he said, shrugging. 'But it seems to have, so...apparently?'

'But that...' Mum swallowed, shook her head a little. 'I don't...'

Mum? Was she having another freak out? Because, she didn't think Blaise had calming potions...

'You should look for your clan.'

The room around her flickered violently as Mum blinked. 'What?'

Looking very uncomfortable again, Blaise shrugged. 'It's just... It's not like squibs. I mean, it  _is_  like squibs, mechanically, but...' He winced. 'You know, it's...harder, for us to have children than it is for humans. It's... I have this great-aunt, you know, she had a  _Zicanći_ , maybe forty years ago now. In the palace in Naples, she has this shrine set up. You know, everything — candles, photos she got someone to take of him, all kinds of things. And...' he trailed off, frowning into the near distance. 'They never get over it. Somewhere, someone is still mourning your mother. They'd be, well, ecstatic, that you exist. There are things you'll need to learn, lilin things, and they'll be more than willing to help.'

That wasn't making Mum's thoughts any  _less_  opaque. An odd mix of feelings she couldn't even begin to pick apart joined the flood of thoughts and impressions, Hazel had no idea what was going on anymore. 'I need to go.'

'Sure. Listen, if you need anything—'

'Yes thank you goodbye.' Mum turned around, tore the charms holding the door closed with a glance, and darted out into the hall. She continued on at just under a run, then turned a corner, the second she was around doing that shadow-stepping thing again. Once the blackness had wiped away, Hazel saw they were in the potions lab on the first floor — luckily nobody was in here at the moment.

Mum, what's going on? Couldn't he just be—

 _Not right now, Hazel. Give me a minute._  With a twitch of her wrist, her wand was in her hand. Mum silently cast a charm Hazel didn't recognise — from the tip of her wand shone a narrow beam of an odd silvery light, little prismatic rainbow sparks twinkling along every once in a while. Mum lifted her other hand, shone the light on the bare skin of her arm. She flicked it back and forth a couple times, squinting at where the light touched.

Didn't look like it was doing anything special to her, Hazel had no idea what Mum was trying to accomplish.

 _I'll explain. In. A minute._  A flick and the light was off. A slight hesitation, another flick toward a nearby table, and...

Was that a fucking  _microscope?_  Had Mum just conjured a microscope in one go? Wasn't that, like, really,  _really_  difficult, something with that many tiny precise pieces? And, like, getting all the lenses and shite to work properly? That sounded, just, absurd.

 _It's not quite as hard as you think it is._  Mum reached up to Hazel's head, with a sharp jerk pulled out a couple hairs.  _But it's not exactly easy, no._  In a few quick, practised motions, Mum had Hazel's hair fixed under the lens, her face against the eyepiece. And she looked at the hair, once again flicking magical lights at them, this time in a few different colours. Hazel really couldn't tell what she was looking for, there didn't seem to be anything interesting going on.

And then Mum was moving again, digging into one of the cabinets against the wall, examining label after label, yanking a few bottles and jars out as she went. Then she was back at the table, conjuring a cauldron and a stand, didn't even use the wand for that. A little fire was cast, floating above the surface of the table just under the bottom of the cauldron, and then Mum was brewing...something, Hazel had no fucking clue what this was supposed to be. And Mum's thoughts were all weird and sharp again, she couldn't pick up a thing.

 _Almost done, Hazel. Last test._  Whatever the potion was took only a handful of minutes to prepare. Mum sliced a tiny cut into Hazel's finger, put a few drops of blood onto a little glass slide she pulled out of nowhere. A drop of the potion was put on top, mixed around a bit with some more wandless magic. And then Mum was at the microscope again, squinting at the mix of Hazel's blood and mystery potion, looking for whatever it was she was looking for. She switched to a more powerful magnification, and squinted some more. Flashed one of those magical lights, squinted some more.

After a long examination, Mum leaned back, vanished the microscope and the cauldron complete with leftover potion with a weak wave of her hand. And she stood there, staring unfocused at nothing. Mind an unreadable mess, fingers twitching idly at her sides. And she stood there unmoving, for a minute. Then another.

Just as Hazel was getting seriously worried, she muttered, 'Zabini's right. You are a lilin.'

Oh, er. She really wasn't certain how she should be feeling about that.

'I don't think there's really something you  _should_  be feeling. Is there a proper way to react to the news that you're not even human?'

No, that's not really what she meant. She meant, she wasn't entirely sure why she should care.

She could feel her own face pulling into a sharp expression of shocked disbelief. 'You're kidding.'

Not...really? She meant, whether she was human, or lilin, or a goddamn alien from the fifth dimension, it didn't really make any difference. Would being a lilin change Hazel being Hazel? It wasn't like she hadn't already been one before. Apparently.

Mum was silent a short moment. 'Somehow, despite that we're  _sharing a body_ , there are times where I  _really_  don't understand you.'

Well, Hazel was just going to take that as a compliment, if that's alright. But anyway, she was more curious how this could possibly have happened. She meant, humans didn't have lilin babies, did they.

'No, they don't. A lilin must have a lilin mother. The father can be lilin or veela, but not human. There is no such thing as a half-lilin, or a human-born lilin. It doesn't happen.'

But...Mum hadn't been a lilin, though.

Mum let out a long sigh. She pulled out a chair from the table, fell to setting in a heavy flop. A hand running into Hazel's hair, she said, 'That's the thing, Hazel. I think I was.'

Er. Wouldn't she have known that before?

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. 'Apparently not. I think Zabini was right, I must have been Flightless. It... It would explain a lot.'

Like what?

'Well, I did always have a talent for fire magic. Not the same  _kind_  of fire magic lilin have, of course, but some of the first accidental magic I ever did involved fire, and the first thing I ever learned to do on purpose was lighting candles. Some of the things I could do with fire, I never could explain it to Sev, how I was doing it, we never could find proper charms to emulate it. And then there's...'

Mum trailed off, hand rubbing over Hazel's face. She was silent another long moment, staring unseeingly at the ground. 'I never did tell you this. I, er...'

What? She was being weird, was it that bad?

'Not bad, exactly, I just...' Mum let out a sigh, slumping back in the chair. 'You were a...surprise. I didn't think I could have children, you see. I didn't get my period at all until I was seventeen, and even then, almost never.  _Maybe_  once a year, only a couple times before... Sev and I looked into it. I was, I was fifteen, and I hadn't— I thought there might be something seriously wrong. It turned out, there was. We tried, had to be two dozen different tests, and most of them said I was... We tried a few treatments, mages have ways to fix that, but none of them did anything. A couple even made me very sick, which they were  _not_  supposed to do. I didn't think I would ever have children. I thought it was, just, physically impossible.

'When I found out I was pregnant with you...' Hazel's head tipped back over the top of the chair, eyes slipping closed, Mum letting out a low chuckle. 'I thought I must have just been ill at first. Bloody miracle.' Mum's mind was soft and warm when she said it, reminding Hazel a bit of those magical hugs she did sometimes, but on the inside instead of the outside.

Okay. How does that explain a lot, though?

'Because lilin don't  _get_  periods. They don't reproduce the same way humans do. I don't know exactly how it works — they keep that to themselves — but I know there's something, they call it the Calling, and... Well, that's not really important. The point is, most of those tests make total sense if I were a lilin. Even the treatments that made me sick — they involved blood, taken from Alice, a nonhuman body would have rejected it. It makes perfect sense. The possibility I'm not human just never occurred to me.' Mum snorted. 'For good reason! I'm a bloody  _muggleborn_...'

Right. Right, okay, that made sense. She got it. Though, you know, if lilin could only have lilin (or veela) parents, that meant—

'Yeah. I, er...' Mum shifted in the chair a little, slightly enough that, with the numbness that came from not being in direct control, Hazel barely even noticed. 'About that. Erm... Ah, well, your biological father obviously isn't James. Legally, he is, but...' Letting out a long, heavy sigh, Mum said, 'I, er, there was really no reason to tell you this, but, I sort of...slept with...other people. A bit.'

Like with Narcissa Malfoy.

Hazel's hand slammed down onto the table, hard enough she could even feel the stinging. ' _God_ , Hazel, could you just drop that already?'

No. Too fascinating.

'I'm  _trying_  to have a serious conversation here!'

Yeah, Hazel really wasn't helping, was she? Sorry about that.

'Yes, well...' Mum sighed, yet again, running a hand through Hazel's hair. 'It's just... James did know about it! I wasn't, like...sneaking around, or whatever. James worshipped me, and I mean that just short of literally — there was no reason to hide it from him, he would have let me get away with anything. Which makes me feel like a bit of a bitch in retrospect...' Mum rubbed at Hazel's forehead for a couple seconds. 'But anyway, I didn't bother with anything to prevent, you know, getting pregnant. I didn't think I  _could_. I probably would not have chosen to have you in  _the middle of a fucking war_ , but I just... Even if I thought it was possible, I wouldn't have...'

Mum was silent a long moment, thoughts once again an incoherent scramble. Then, with another wave of her hand, another dextrous flex of her magic, a plain mirror appeared in front of Hazel. Then, with another wandless charm, her reflection vanished, replaced with an image. A man, probably in his twenties or thirties — it was hard to tell with mages — wearing a totally unfamiliar cut of robes a soft blue-white. He had a hair a light, yellowish-brown, eyes a strikingly bright amber, a rounded, gentle face pulled into a crooked smile, a glint of unnaturally white teeth visible past thin lips.

Erm, okay? What's with the random magical picture of weird-looking handsome man?

Mum snorted out a laugh. With a short gesture at the mirror, she said, 'That's your father.'

... Oh. Well.

'I can't tell you what his real name was. They usually have two, you see — one in their own language they use with their own people, and then one in the local language they use with humans. Since his clan lived in France — I don't know the clan's name either, by the way — he used Aurélien. Most people called him Élie.'

Élie? Did, er, that have anything to do with her first name actually being Elizabeth, which she still thought was weird, but still?

'What? What, no, you were named after your aunt Elizabeth.' Mum shook her head for a second, muttering something Hazel didn't catch. ' _Anyway_ , I was in France, on a trip for...some Auror thing, it doesn't matter. There was a social...thing, and some local veela were there. We ran into each other and, well, long story short, we spent...I don't know, two weeks? Something like that. That would have been August, Seventy-Nine. I realised I was pregnant in December, it must have been him. Which means I would have been pregnant with you for about eleven months but, I don't know, maybe it's longer in lilin.'

So, she was really— Wait, she knew something about this, lilin with a veela father. Wasn't that a whole thing?

'Yes, but I don't really know anything about it. You'd have to ask an actual lilin.' Mum leaned back in the chair again, eyes again falling closed. 'This is so incredibly fucked up.'

Hazel didn't particularly see why. Yes, it was sort of strange, but...so? Her whole life was strange, when she thought about it.

'I mean...' Mum sighed some more, hand coming up to cover her face, fingers almost instantly going for her temple again. 'It's not even really the revelation that you, we, have been lilin this whole time. That's a bit... It's a lot, but I can process that, and it's not something we have to change anything we're doing for. By itself, I mean. It'll take some...processing...on  _my_  end, at least,' she added, voice in a low grumble. 'It's the external stuff that's the problem.'

What external stuff?

'Hazel, people  _are_  going to find out. You're young now, so it's not obvious, but we won't be able to keep it a secret forever.'

... And?

If Hazel had been physically capable of such a thing, the sudden shouting might have made her jump. Well, if it weren't her own voice doing the— Whatever. 'Because British mages are racist bastards! You've said it yourself with that  _exact phrase_  no less than three times  _today!'_  Mum collapsed back against the chair with another heavy sigh. 'And if you think they're bad about blood purity, they're  _much_  worse about nonhuman beings. Especially with lilin. Haven't you noticed Zabini doesn't have any friends? And with you being Lady Potter, a living national treasure, this Girl-Who-Lived nonsense... It's going to be bad, Hazel.'

Oh. Hadn't thought of that. How bad was she talking?

'Bad.  _Very_  bad. If I know British mages... If you're still in school when it comes out, which you almost certainly will be, we...we might have to leave Hogwarts.'

Oh, wow,  _that_  bad. Huh. Where would they go, then? She meant, she assumed Mum wouldn't let her just not finish school. Could just upload Mum's education into Hazel's brain, but apparently that was a bad idea, for some reason she still didn't understand.

'Yes, Hazel, that's a bad idea. I don't know. I mean, there's a decent school in Ireland, but that might not be any better. Beauxbatons, maybe? I don't know. I'll have to look into it.'

Wait, Beauxbatons? That was in France, right?

'Er...' Mum shrugged. 'I think so? Definitely on the Continent, I don't know exactly where.'

But Hazel didn't speak French.

'Okay, I'm not even saying it'll be Beauxbatons, but if it is, don't worry about it.'

You know, she had the feeling paying attention in a fucking boring easy class would be even harder if she didn't even speak the language.

'I speak French. It'll be fine.'

But... What, uploading  _languages_  into her head was fine, but the other stuff wasn't?

'Yes. Exactly.'

That wasn't at all fair.

'And here I thought fairness was a meaningless concept.'

Hazel rather regretted that she wasn't in control of her body right now. Pouting was  _far_  less effective when she didn't have a face.

* * *

The next morning, when Blaise joined them for breakfast at their usual spot at the Slytherin table, and Daphne once again shot her a questioning frown, this time with a noticeable hint of exasperation, Hazel elected to ignore it entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [There wasn't, like, a ghost that hung around in bathrooms and cried a lot or something? / _How absurd do you think this place is?_ ] — _In case you're wondering, there isn't a Moaning Myrtle in this timeline. Yes, there's a reason for that, I didn't just do it randomly. And no, that reason probably won't come up explicitly. Briefly, Tom made the diary horcrux with someone else. And, as to why this particular line came up, I just couldn't resist._
> 
> [There is no age of majority in magical British law.] — _The idea of a legal age of majority/consent/whatever is a very new idea, relatively speaking. There are records of people being legally married as young as two years old in the middle ages, single-digit ages still seen in the late 1600s, when the Statute was implemented. The entire concept of childhood is a modern invention. There is no reason to expect the isolated magical community **must** have paralleled legal and social developments of the late Nineteenth Century, two hundred years after the Statute. The point is, there is no law in place preventing Hazel from exercising her rights as the Lady Potter. The other members of the Wizengamot are unlikely to take an eleven-year-old peer seriously, but that doesn't change the legal reality._
> 
> _Yes, by the way, this also means there is no such thing as an age of consent, and thus no concept of statutory rape. Child sexual abuse in magical Britain is a very complicated issue, legally speaking: if the Lord/Master/whatever of the child's House is perfectly fine with it, the Ministry has very little power to intervene. (Only in the event of an imminent threat to the child's life, in fact.) Child abuse in general is complicated, for the same reasons. It does happen, of course, and many people acknowledge it's a problem, but nobody can agree on how to deal with it without giving the Wizengamot/Ministry powers most are uncomfortable with._
> 
> _Why, yes, I do think about this sort of thing way too hard._
> 
> Glanwvyl — _Roughly " **glah** -nuh-vill" (IPA: /'glɑ̃.nə.βɨl/), from the Brīþwn words for "clean" (Welsh: glân) and "breeze" (Welsh: awel)._
> 
> Gemmeam — _Meaning "jeweled" or "glittering" in the Latin, a very clipped incantation. (Hazel dropped a couple words.) This charm has actually shown up in my other stories a few times — off the top of my head, I know Susan cast it in her practice duel with Mel in TRW, and Lily cast it wandlessly over Emma in a pub, and I **think** it was used in Neville and Charissa's doubles duel in the tournament, both in TLG — but I'm 99% certain the incantation has never shown up. It's an all-purpose shield charm, blocking physical objects, basic hexes/curses, elemental magics, and even a fair amount of dark magic. How well it actually works depends on the user, of course._
> 
> Mutilā — _Literally, "mutilate", as a second-person command (speaking to the wand, sort of). A less-than-pleasant dark curse, sort of a combination of a piercing and blasting charm. Why, yes, you learn some questionable things with a dark witch who lived through a war sharing your brain._
> 
> [Yeah but, seriously, why? She didn't _need_ to be covered.] — _No, seriously, why **did** Hermione lie in that scene? Still don't fully understand that._
> 
> Zicanći — _Pronounced roughly "zee-cahn-chee" (IPA:_ /ʑi.cã.çi/ ; /zɪ.cã.c͡çi/ _), meaning literally "not-fly". A native word for veela/lilin who do not possess the natural abilities of veela/lilin. This prevents them from participating in their culture practically at all, so they are usually sent away to live with a human family shortly after birth. Unlike in magical culture, where squibs are often considered shameful, a Zicanći being born is considered a family tragedy, not dissimilar to, say, a stillbirth. With few exceptions, Zicanći are unaware of their heritage._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Surprise?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Props to MurderRose for guessing Hazel's a lilin back in chapter three. Yes, original worldbuilding involving veela and lilin is going to feature prominently in this fic. It's all stuff I already made up as background in TRW, planning for a future plot event, most of it just hadn't come up yet._
> 
> _Due to the lightspeed pacing on this bitch (by my standards), there should only be two or three chapter before the end of first year. Probably two. If all goes well, I should have the next chapter up before next weekend. The chapter after that might be problematic, though — I just got my work schedule, and it's not fun. It'll happen when it happens._
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	6. Song in the Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cousin Draco makes an oopsie.

Hazel was getting  _really_  sleepy. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep being coherent.

_You can go to sleep, you know. It wouldn't hinder me at all._

Oh, yeah, Hazel should be able to get to sleep no problem, with her eyes open and her body moving around. That wasn't distracting at all.

_I could knock you out quick._

And possessing her again certainly wasn't going to wake Hazel up or anything.

Mum let out a sigh, both hands lifting from the book she was reading to run through her hair.  _Do you want me to call it a night?_

If Mum could find a convenient stopping point soon, that'd be great.

It turned out, getting into the Restricted Section in the middle of the night was surprisingly easy. Pince had various security wards enchanted into the door frames — according to Mum, she'd even removed some of the tiles on the floor to carve runs  _into the undersides_  — but Mum hadn't spent eight years studying memetic magic with nothing to show for it. A few quick runes drawn into the air, and the detection part of the wards was isolated from the alarm part; she only had to tear apart the glimmering lines of energy left floating in the air on their way out, and they were golden.

Hazel didn't understand how that trick worked, exactly — it  _was_  cursebreaking, she hadn't even begun studying that yet — but it apparently worked just fine. They'd been sneaking into the place every weekend since they'd gotten here, and it was  _December_ , they still hadn't been caught once.

Of course, as far as Hazel could tell, they also hadn't made any progress.

 _I've made_ _ **some**_   _progress. Just not enough._

They were sitting at one of the tables squeezed between the gloomy, dusty stacks. The Restricted Section wasn't lit nearly as well as the main body of the library — there were no windows, the lamps less frequent. Scattered about the surface were books, on alchemy, on necromancy, on soul magic, all of which were far beyond Hazel's understanding, even the language itself archaic and arcane. Plus Mum's notes, a notebook and dozens of loose sheets of parchment filled with dense scribbling which, even if Hazel had been able to understand the subject matter, Mum was writing in a code using bloody ancient Egyptian characters Hazel couldn't even begin to decipher. Did seem overly paranoid, but what did Hazel know.

_Oh yes, overly paranoid. Not like I'm researching very illegal black magic that could get us sent to Azkaban for the rest of your natural life for actually performing. I'm just being paranoid, silly me._

Could something be  _very_  illegal? Just, she hadn't realised there were degrees.

_As the lightest possible sentence for performing restricted magic is six months, and the most severe is a life sentence, yes, there are degrees._

Oh. Well. That was only performing it, though. Were they anywhere close to a position they could be performing anything?

_Unfortunately, no. I could create a blood golem easily enough, but it would be just that — a golem. Not a true living body I could use indefinitely._

Wouldn't that work, though? She meant, it would be a separate body Mum could use forever. If it, like, didn't last very long, it wasn't like Mum couldn't make a new one.

_True. But it would technically be a long-term possession. There are issues that come with that._

Like what?

_Well, for one, I can't make a blood golem with its own magic. My spellcasting abilities would be severely limited._

Oh. Well. Yeah, sounded like that idea wasn't a usable one.

_I should make one anyway. I'd be able to do things like this without disturbing you, if nothing else. But it's not a long-term solution, no._

Were there any long-term solutions?

 _That's what I've been trying to figure out._  Letting out another sigh, Mum reached across the table, grabbing one book in particular. Hazel recognised this one, a ratty thing of fraying, yellowing parchment she'd pulled off the shelf nearly every time they'd been here. Mum flipped it open to a particular page, mostly dominated by an illustration: a drawing of a naked man, a couple runes on his chest and forehead, surrounded by what looked rather like a vase, a dozen rays spreading out from the top, a bundle of more unfamiliar runes at the tips.

Mum tapped at the drawing with a finger.  _The only method I know of to properly anchor an unbound spirit to a living body is the homunculus. The entire purpose of the homunculus is to bind the soul — the user would then transfer the binding to a permanent living vessel by ritual life alchemy._

Sounded like Mum was figuring it out. What was the problem?

 _Other than the fact that I would have to develop the second ritual from scratch which, since I've never studied life alchemy, is going to be insanely difficult?_  Mum turned a couple pages, coming to another with an illustration. If Hazel had been properly connected to her stomach at the moment, she might have gotten a little queasy. This one depicted a man on his knees, holding a baby upraised in both hands, clearly having just ripped it out of the woman in front of him. Whoever had drawn the thing had gone into far more detail than Hazel thought was  _quite_  necessary, including blood welling from her torn belly and sprayed all over the place, the reddish colour faded with age, complete with an expression of horror and agony on her face.

It took Hazel a moment to gather herself. Yeah, she was gonna go out on a limb and assume making a homunculus wasn't exactly pleasant.

_To put it lightly. I don't think I could stomach ritually torturing an innocent pregnant woman, and using the power of her sacrificial murder to replace the soul of her unborn child with my own. Not to mention I'd still need the life alchemy ritual, and that might require a sacrifice too, I'm not sure. I'd rather like to be properly alive again, but I'm not willing to go quite that far._

They were on the same page on that one.

 _I've worked sacrificial magics before, of course, most high ritual requires it. Just, I haven't sacrificed_ _ **people**_   _before. Well, myself that one time, but still. That's a bit blacker than I like my arts._

Yeah, let's not do that.

 _Don't worry, it's not on the table. What I'm trying to do is isolate whatever part of this magic it is that creates the binding itself. That's the part I need. If I can figure out how to do that_ _ **without**_   _the torture and murder we'd be getting somewhere._

Hazel was guessing she wasn't having any luck so far.

Mum slammed the vile book closed, hard enough a cloud of dust flooshed up into the air.  _Not as such, no._  A flick of Hazel's fingers, and Mum cast a charm to force the dust back out of the air, before it could get too close to her — sneezing wasn't exactly stealthy.  _It doesn't help that all these texts are extremely vague. I_ _ **know**_   _there used to be a copy of Ptolemy's treatise on the magical properties of the soul in the original Alexandrian, but I can't find the bloody thing._

Wait, it used to be here, but it wasn't anymore?

_Yes. It's not the only one I've noticed is missing either, the soul magic and high ritual sections are noticeably thinner._

Did someone remove books from the Restricted Section?

_It really looks like it._

Who could even do that?

_Dumbledore. Someone could have stolen them at some point, I suppose, but in official capacity, just Dumbledore._

Oh. Why would Dumbledore be removing books from the library?

 _It's not entirely unreasonable, from a certain point of view._  Mum leaned back in the chair, rubbing at Hazel's eyes — if she had to guess, her body was getting rather tired too.  _Some of the magics described in these texts are insanely dangerous if improperly used. As this pleasant little illustration indicates, a few of them aren't so nice even when used properly. Dumbledore's opinion on the black arts being what it is, I can see the rationale for pulling them from the shelves — some professors do give out open passes to the Restricted Section to certain favoured students, and, as I'm demonstrating right now, this isn't exactly Nurmengard. It's not out of the question someone who shouldn't be reading this sort of thing will._

That did sort of make sense, she guessed. It might be inconvenient for them, what with needing something to get Mum a proper body back, but there  _was_  some rather dangerous shite in here, even after Dumbledore had pulled a few things. She meant, damn, just look at that thing...

_Actually, it only describes the ritual in vague terms. Rather colourful terms, yes, but still nonspecific. You couldn't actually make a homunculus from only the information in this library. Not that I've found yet, anyway._

Well, still. It did  _sort of_  make sense. No need arming future Dark Lords, right? If this was a recent enough thing Mum knew about it, it was very possible even Voldemort learned some of the worse stuff he knew in this very room.

_Yes, that is possible. Even likely, I would think._

Then why did Mum feel so angry? Was it just the inconveniencing them part? Because, it was sorta like controlling nuclear materials in the muggle world, and all that.

_Okay, first of all, it's not comparable at all. Nuclear materials themselves are controlled, but you can walk into any public library in the Western world and find a book that will tell you exactly how to make a hydrogen bomb. The knowledge is widely available, just not the means to do it. Here, Dumbledore is restricting access to knowledge. That is a whole new can of worms._

Well, okay, but the means to do it in the magical world is just a wand.

_Not true — a lot of these rituals require exotic materials the average person isn't going to be able to get — but that isn't really the point either._

_Tell me, Hazel: what is the best defence against a cutting curse?_

Er, no idea what the point of the sudden quiz was, but sure. A shield charm, though exactly which one she would use would depend on which cutting curse it was, and how powerful it was cast.

_You wouldn't just dodge it? Perhaps, conjure something to block it?_

Well, Hazel personally couldn't do much conjuring at all, so that wasn't really an option. And, even if it were, conjuration is a huge investment of concentration and energy relative to a shield charm, and it might not even work, depending on which cutting curse it was, how powerful it was cast. And dodging was a risk, because cutting curses were usually cast in arcs, and it might be too wide to easily dodge. Even if she could dodge it, it might leave her off-balance or unprepared for whatever the next thing her theoretical enemy was whipping up was. So, shield charms.

_How about if someone cast the Green Death at you?_

Er. Conjuring something in the way was preferable, but be prepared to deal with debris, if it was cast powerfully enough to explode the thing. Dodging was a greater risk, for the same reason she mentioned a second ago, but the killing curse was a point charm, so it was much more easily dodgeable, and she couldn't actually conjure yet anyway...

_Why not a shield charm?_

Well...as far as Hazel knew, there  _was_  no shield charm that could block the Green Death. There might be some white magic she didn't know about, but other than that...

_Right, right. What if you're being mobbed by inferi?_

Fire. Lots of fire. Fire that counts as light magic, preferably, but anything fire would do in a pinch.

_Would you even recognise an inferius if you saw one? If it were made from a fresh corpse..._

Hazel wouldn't be able to by sight, if it were made fresh and all, but she would be able to  _feel_  the difference. They don't have souls — they would feel like a spell, black magic at that, not a person.

_Yes, that's a good point. What about if you were set upon by a group of dementors?_

Well, she couldn't cast a  _patrōnus_ , or any other of the charms she knew of that could deal with them. Beyond her abilities, currently. But, there were other things she could do. Fire wouldn't drive them off entirely, but it would make them keep their distance, no Kissing would be going on. A few of the better shield charms would blunt the effect of their influence somewhat, and she was inching along with mind magic. Just, put up a bunch of fire, resist the mental effects as best she could, and cast the nastiest black curses she could think of at them until they go away.

_Black curses? Why bother firing off curses at them? You can't hurt them, and you'd be expending quite a bit of energy._

Er, was she remembering that wrong? She thought she'd read something about harmonic interference, something about how, it might not permanently hurt them, but certain black magics can be rather...unpleasant for them, not exactly painful — could dementors even feel pain? Anyway, if she resisted them long enough and made sticking around unpleasant enough, they'd fly away. Right?

_You're not mistaken. I was testing you._

Right, she'd figured that out. But what was the point of this test?

_That was some rather useful knowledge in countering the black arts you just demonstrated. Now, Hazel, have you ever actually performed any black arts?_

Er...no? She didn't think so? Unless something Mum had taught her was illegal and she hadn't said anything...

_Not yet, but we were gonna start on shadow magic and runic casting soon, but those are just restricted magics, not proper black arts. But anyway, if you never studied the black arts yourself, how exactly did you learn all that?_

Well, Mum had told her.

_And how do you think I learned it?_

Er...

Mum dropped the hands from her eyes, gave a slow look around the Restricted Section.

... Oh.

_Yes. Oh. The issue of the regulation of the black arts is not one that can easily be compared to anything muggles have to deal with. It cannot be compared to the restriction on private ownership of firearms, because every little boy and girl is given what is essentially a loaded gun when they're eleven years old — an average student is taught at least four charms they could easily kill someone with by the end of first year, and don't even get me started on the potential lethality of even elementary transfiguration. It cannot be compared to the prevention of nuclear proliferation, because there is absolutely nothing a single person can do to protect themselves from a bloody atomic fireball._

_However, a mage who has studied the black arts can_ _ **protect themselves from**_   _the black arts. I can't tell you how many times, in the war, I witnessed someone trying to stop an inferius with binding spells or stunning charms, or someone struck dead by a killing curse passing through a shield charm. Once a team of Patrolmen were incinerated to a man while trying to_ _ **put out Fiendfyre with conjured water**_ _! They can't effectively protect themselves, because they_ _ **don't know how**_ _. Even with absolutely no intention of ever performing any yourself, simply the study of the black arts makes you safer._

_The muggles have that saying about knowledge being power, and they aren't wrong. You'll notice mages don't have a similar saying, but that's only because it's not something they need to be told, they already know. In the magical world, knowledge is_ _**everything** _ _. And Dumbledore is against letting people have it, so fundamentally opposed he is pulling from the shelves texts his worshipers in the Wizengamot haven't even gotten around to banning yet. Unintentionally, I'm sure, he is making people vulnerable. Future Dark Lords will find ways to arm themselves no matter what can be found in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts. All he is doing is sabotaging the ability of the average person to defend herself._

_When the next Dark Lord comes — and, since this is Britain, that shouldn't take very long — people will die, helpless people will die. And it will be, in some small way, Dumbledore's fault._

_And he thinks he's such a great, moral person for engaging in this sort of idiocy too, everyone who disagrees with him either hopelessly unenlightened or three steps away from going on a murderous rampage themselves. So, yes, I'm angry with the self-righteous patronising old goat-fucking bastard. Should I not be?_

No. No, that made perfect sense. Hazel got it now.

_And you didn't get it before?_

Well, she'd just assumed Mum was teaching her this sort of thing because she was a dark witch and didn't give a damn. That, Hazel being the Girl-Who-Had-a-Massive-Target-on-Her-Back, she'd  _need_  to know these things, or end up murdered by racists or some random crazy person with a creepy obsession or something. She hadn't realised there was actual logic behind it, that Mum thought  _everyone_  should learn these things. That was all. She got it now.

Mum snorted.  _Nice to know we're on the same page._  The world tilted dizzyingly around her as Mum pushed them up to their feet. Faintly, as though from a distance, she felt Mum reach for her magic, power thrumming through her veins like music distilled into liquid. Then she cast a handful of charms, the various books she'd pulled zinging over to their shelves, her notes collecting into a pile, binding themselves together, vanishing into a matchbook size she could easily slip into a pocket.  _And here you even changed your mind to agree with me, which is a unique experience. Had the same conversation with so bloody many people in the war, always insisted I was an ignorant muggleborn who didn't know what I was talking about._  The table cleaned up, Mum put out the lights with a wave of a hand, and started for the entrance.  _Which I always thought was ironic, considering these were supposed to be the people who supported the inclusion of muggleborns. It's okay so long as we don't have controversial opinions, I guess._

Did any of these people end up getting hit with killing curses their shield didn't block, things like that?

 _Well, yes. I suppose it's also ironic for that reason._  Just inside the main body of the library, Mum stopped, a wave of a hand wiping away the concealment charms she'd cast earlier. Mum's little cursebreaking hack was revealed, a bundle of runes floating in the air, glowing gentle silver-blue and purple. She reached out with a hand, as though to physically grab them, released a flash of energy, and tore the thing apart with a sharp jerk. The colours lingered in the air a moment before dissipating, sparks drifting toward the floor, blinking out completely before they met the tile.

Abruptly, the library disappeared from existence. Hazel was surrounded with black emptiness, fuzzy glimmers of enchantments and wards forming a faded, indistinct haze in the distance. And then the world snapped back into being, and they were now standing in a hallway, a short distance from the entrance to the Slytherin dorms. She still found that shadow magic trick vaguely unnerving, every time.

 _It is a little odd, but you get used to it_. Mum layered a few concealment and avoidance spells over them — it  _was_  long after curfew, after all — and started off for the dorms.

So. About the books in the library. If Dumbledore had pulled all the "dangerous" ones, that meant everything that would have something actually helpful was probably gone.

Mum let out a long, heavy sigh. Her eyes fell closed, but she kept walking, which was fine, she should know this area well enough not to run into anything.  _Yes, probably. I'm going to keep trying just in case, but it looks like the Restricted Section is a bust._

There were other places they could go, right? That wasn't the end of the line, or anything.

_No, no, there are other options. I'm sure Sev has a private library, back at home. He might be able to help us solve the second ritual, the life alchemy. The soul binding, though? He's never really worked with soul magic, I doubt he'd have much of anything useful._

So, then?

_Knockturn Alley would have a few places we could check out. I'll need to make an aging potion for that — they're unlikely to deal with a child, but if you look older, then we just have to deal with their hesitation to work with a stranger._

Did aging potions work properly with lilin?

Mum, just opening her mouth to spout out the password to get into the common room, abruptly froze. Then she let out a snarl, even stomping her foot, which seemed slightly out of character, but okay.  _ **Fuck**_ _, I completely forgot._  She ground out the password, then stepped into the common room, still murmuring curses under her breath.  _Fine, I'll need to first rebalance the standard aging potion to work with lilin magic, and_ _ **then**_   _we can go to Knockturn._

Okay. Sorry.

_It's not your fault, Hazel. I'm just not used to the idea yet._

It had only been a couple weeks, she guessed. She meant, Hazel was basically over it already, but Mum had thought she was human for longer than Hazel had.

_Not to mention I wasn't raised by a couple sick excuses for human beings constantly telling me I wasn't like them._

That too. Honestly, Hazel wasn't certain she'd ever considered herself human. At least, not in a way that was the same as everyone else.

There was an odd spasm in the part of her Mum lived, so off and so brief Hazel didn't catch enough to interpret it.  _I never know how to react when you say things like that so casually._

She didn't really have to say anything. But, anyway, that would work? Books from Knockturn Alley.

 _If it won't, we'll find something else._  An instant after closing the door of Hazel's room behind her, and checking to make sure Tracey was asleep, Mum shrugged off the concealing spells, headed over to tuck her notes into Hazel's trunk.  _Don't worry, Hazel, we'll figure it out._

She knew that, she just...well...

Faintly, she felt her own eyebrow tick up a notch.  _Yes?_

It's just... She knew it couldn't be very fun. Not having her own body, she meant, being trapped in the back of Hazel's head most of the time. Not being able to do things. She knew it must suck, she knew  _she_  would hate it. Sometimes she worried, was all. That Mum was miserable, she meant.

_You don't have to worry about me, Hazel._

She did, though.

_I am your mother, you know. I'm supposed to be the one worrying about you._

Yes, well. Hazel wasn't the one who was having so much badness. She wasn't the one who had  _literally died_ , and might be trapped as a spirit-thing forever. She wasn't the one who'd just learned a couple weeks ago everything she'd known had been a lie. Well, she meant, she sort of had, but...

_I knew my mum and dad weren't my biological parents, Hazel. They told me Petunia and I were adopted when I was, like, six. Seven? Whenever it was we talked about Punnett Squares in primary, I don't know._

Hazel knew that, Mum mentioned it ages ago. That wasn't really what she meant. Just because  _Hazel_  didn't care that she wasn't technically human and never had been didn't mean Mum couldn't.

_Technically, I'm not anything. I am drawing this from memory, but I'm pretty sure, barring a few negligible tweaks here and there, the minds of all beings are identical. Considering I'm technically only mind right now..._

That was so not the point.

_I know. I'm gonna let you take over now._

Okay. The split-second warning was enough that, when the presence of her own body came rushing back, Hazel didn't almost fall over this time. She did waver slightly going for her trunk, but that always happened whenever Mum'd been running the show for a few hours at a time. Pulling her dress over her head, Hazel thought at Mum that she was gonna worry about it no matter what Mum said. She wasn't really an expert on the topic, but she was pretty sure worrying was just what happened when you loved someone.

_My own experience would suggest so. Pretty sure I've been a few seconds from a heart attack since the very second I found out I was pregnant with you._

Halfway through changing into her nightdress, Hazel smirked into the smooth cloth against her face. That was silly. Most of that time, Mum hadn't even had a heart to have an attack with. And here she thought Mum wasn't going to lie to her, she felt so betrayed.

_Oh, ha ha._

* * *

Lily hadn't given up hope yet. She hadn't been lying when she'd told Hazel she wasn't particularly worried. While she had rather more stringent moral limitations than most who'd done it before, she would hardly be the first person to be preserved after the death of her body, to be resurrected some time later. It had been done dozens of times across history, usually within a couple years, but in one notable case she'd read about even  _centuries_  after the person's original death. She wasn't working with a full deck, handicapped somewhat by ethics and resources both — most previous cases of success involved massive wealth, a legion of devoted disciples to do the resurrecting — but she'd figure it out eventually, she knew that.

Some moments, though, were harder than others, made that day of her return to proper life seem so much further away. This one was particularly bad.

It wasn't something that out of the ordinary, really. Hazel was home for the holidays, it was even now the evening of the Solstice, and they were having a whole family moment. Nothing even that special. The Tonkses were gathered in front of the lowly crackling hearth, Ted laid out across the sofa, Andi half on top of him, Hazel and Dora crammed into a single armchair. Dora had aged herself down to match Hazel again, but there really wasn't enough room for the both of them, tight enough the occasional shift or giggle had sent cider spilling over the rim of Hazel's mug on at least three separate occasions. Hazel didn't even mind, leaning in to the snuggling she'd consider suffocating from probably anybody else, her hands and jumper and skirt covered with an imperturbable charm — which was really quite clever of her, she'd cast it before Lily could even think to suggest a solution. And they weren't doing anything special, just sitting, and talking, and joking...

It wasn't the thing itself that was bothering Lily, so much. Dora being quite this close to Hazel was slightly irritating, and not because she had her issues with the girl, no, she was honest enough to at least admit to herself it was mostly envy. She was sitting here, hip to hip with Hazel, free arm wrapped about her, Hazel leaning easily against her chest, close enough Hazel could feel the warmth of her breath just below her ear, hair lightly fluttering back and forth.

It wasn't the same, drifting here as she was, it wasn't the same at all. Lily was all too acutely aware that the last time she'd held Hazel she'd been an infant. She was lucky to have what she did, she knew, a fortunate mistake, but it  _wasn't the same_ , and in moments like these, she  _hurt_ , she ached to hold her, she burned for the feel and the warmth and the scent of her baby girl, but she  _couldn't_ , it  _wasn't_  the same, and she  _hated_  it. A part of her hated Dora, for possessing so casually, without knowing the value of it, something Lily would give  _anything_  to have, she couldn't help it. She ached to be in Dora's place, but she hadn't a chest for Hazel to lean against, hadn't arms to hold her, hadn't breath to tickle at her hair. And she  _hated_  it.

She hated it, but she tried, as best she could, to keep that feeling from Hazel. Because Hazel was...well, happy. Lily knew that. She could feel it, Hazel soft and calm and warm, perfectly at ease here with the Tonkses, the only home she'd ever known worthy of the word. Smirking at Andi's stories, giggling at Ted's jokes, trying  _not_  to giggle at Dora's wildly inappropriate comments and, of course, inevitably failing. It was nothing special, just a quiet evening with her family, and Hazel was safe, and comfortable, and happy.

This was exactly what Lily had wanted. This was why she'd had Hazel reach out to the Tonkses in the first place. It wouldn't be... It wouldn't be right, to sabotage Hazel's happiness just because Lily couldn't properly be a part of it. She knew she could be a selfish bitch — she'd certainly been told so enough times to get the message — but she wasn't terrible enough for that. Lily couldn't do this for Hazel, she couldn't be there properly, so somebody else should. So she walled herself, her silly stupid feelings, off from Hazel as well as she could, she would let Hazel have this.

No matter how much it hurt to just hang back and watch.

They'd all gone through a few mugs, who knew how many hours had passed — Ted and Andi must be spiking theirs with something, because they were getting progressively sillier as the night wore on. Lily had no idea what time it had to be by now, nine or ten at least, when a soft binging rang from the direction of the door. The conversation trailed off, everyone turning to stare at the thing. After a second, Ted said, 'The hell's calling this time of night, on the Solstice of all nights?'

'It's not for me.' At this angle her face was hidden, but Lily could hear the smirk on Dora's voice easily enough. 'I told all the usual suspects to not bother coming tonight.'

Her legs shifting to tip her feet toward the floor, Andi shot a flat look in Dora's direction. 'When's the last time someone calling on you came through the door?' The obvious implication being people who were "calling on" Dora generally just came in through her window, and straight into her bed. Honestly, Lily still didn't understand how Andi could possibly tolerate Dora's... Well, Dora, just Dora.

And Dora shrugged, the movement sending Hazel's drink sloshing. 'I dunno. Summer after third year?'

Ted shook his head. 'I distinctly recall the Weasley boy uses the front door.'

'That's 'cause I'm not shagging him anymore.'

'Really? I thought you liked Charlie.'

'I  _do_  like Charlie. And he likes me. His mother, on the other hand, does not.'

'Why does that matter? Not like you were shagging her too.'

'Well, I mean, if she was offering...'

Whoever it was at the door pushed the switch again, the air softly vibrating with the tone. Shifting a bit more toward sitting up proper, Andi said, 'If we're done making jokes about my daughter spreading her legs for everyone under the sun...'

Hazel shook her head. 'Never be done. There's a lot of people under the sun, you see.'

'Yeah, I got my work cut out for me.'

Soft face pulling into a wide smirk, Ted said, 'I plan to still be teasing you over your unreasonably full dance card on my deathbed.'

'Don't worry, Dad, I'll keep giving you material. I'll try to make it as entertaining as I can.'

Smirk stretching yet wider, Ted lifted his mug, as though about to offer a toast. Voice deep and serious, 'My daughter, ladies and gentlemen.'

And the door went again. 'Well, I should just get that in any case.' Andi set her mug on the floor against the front of the sofa, made to stand.

She didn't make it very far, Ted's free arm hooking around her hips, dragging her back down the few inches she'd gotten up. Face under her hair against her neck, he muttered, 'Where do you think  _you're_  going, Miss Black?'

Lily caught a thought from Hazel, surprise at the slight pinking she noticed on Andi's cheeks. Hazel was confused, but, if Lily had to guess, it probably had something to do with where exactly Ted had pulled her back down to sit. Judging by the noticeable husky tone to his voice, Ted's lap was probably a distracting place to be sitting right now. 'Not in front of the girls, Ted.'

'The girls don't give a damn.' Ted's head tilted a bit, the smirk on his face mostly hidden by Andi's hair. 'Do you, girls?'

Hazel shrugged. 'Doesn't bother me. You can go right ahead and get to snogging, for all I care.'

'And I want you to keep at it.' Dora's arm shifted, hand coming up to pat Hazel on the side of the head. 'Gotta get me a new baby sister or brother before this one stops being cute.'

While a somewhat aggravated-looking Andi made her escape, heading for the door, Hazel turned to meet Dora's eyes — which was somewhat awkward with how tightly-packed they were in this chair, their noses were practically touching. 'Are you saying I'm not cute anymore?'

'No, no, perish the thought! I'm just planning ahead, is all.'

'You are saying I'm  _going_  to stop being cute, though. So mean, Dora.'

Dora snorted, her eyes flicking in an abbreviated roll. 'Hazel, I've seen pictures of your mum, even met her a couple times. Long time ago, but, when you start growing up proper, I'm guessing you're gonna entirely skip pretty.'

For some reason, Lily noticed a low boil of amusement simmering through Hazel's thoughts. 'Really, now.'

'Oh, yes. If you turn out anything like your mother, and by the look of you now I'm guessing you're gonna, you'll be lush as all get-out. Tastier than the finest chocolate cheesecake. More stunning than the charm. You get the idea.'

'Mm-hmm.' And there Hazel was, still giggling to herself internally.

Which was a bit odd. Lily really, really didn't see what was so amusing about her cousin-slash-adopted-sister basically saying she'd do Hazel the second she's old enough.

_I just think it's kinda funny, that she's being all silly like this, and she doesn't even know I'm a lilin yet._

Oh, god, Hazel was going to sleep with Dora some day, wasn't she.

_What, is that bad? I mean, I'm not saying I'm going to, but I don't see what's wrong with that enough to deserve an oh, god._

She didn't— They were cousins, Hazel!

_Only second cousins. Second-slash-third cousins once removed, actually._

Oh, only second cousins! That  _really_  wasn't the point. And, besides, since she'd moved in here almost five years ago now, they'd been more  _sisters_  than anything.

_I guess. So?_

_**So**_ _?!_  She didn't— Nope, no, no, Lily wasn't dealing with this right now. They could unpack Hazel's complete inability to process fundamental human relationships some other day.

_Okay..._

Fortunately, Lily was given something to distract herself from that unbearably uncomfortable topic soon enough. Andi had finished with whoever was at the door, and was gliding her way back toward her family — unfairly gracefully, considering how much alcohol Lily figured she'd had by now. Folded over her arm was something that, even without currently having full use of Hazel's eyes, she recognised instantly. She just didn't know what the fuck it was doing here.

_What what's doing here?_

'Hazel,' Andi said, coming to a halt in front of Hazel and Dora's overful armchair, 'this is yours, by the way. It appeared here overnight, a couple days ago, in an unsigned package, so I had a friend rather better with inanimate curses than I to look it over. I hope you don't mind.' And she held the Cloak,  _the_  Cloak, out to Hazel. And, by the way she held it, the slight shade of shock in her face, Lily knew she knew  _exactly_  what it was.

'No, that's fine.' Hazel took the Cloak with one hand, the smooth, impossibly thin cloth nearly slipping through her fingertips, most of the length pooling over her lap, liquid moonlight running down her legs and the armrest next to her. 'What is it?'

Her voice low, with a hint of awe, Dora said, 'That's an invisibility cloak. A damn fine one, too, by the look of it. See how it's all shimmery?'

'Actually...' Andi hesitated a short moment, looking visibly unsure of herself. Lily suspect that, if she'd had just one more drink, she might have been biting her lip right now. 'Emma believes it's  _the_  Cloak.'

'Ha!' Ted's sudden laugh was sharp and loud enough Hazel jumped. 'That'd be the day, Relics just appearing in the house. Funny.'

'I'm not joking, Ted. She says it's the Peverell Cloak. She couldn't get the thing in my hands and herself out the door quick enough.'

'No  _fucking way_.' Dora leaned in even closer to Hazel, chin practically resting on her shoulder, and started picking at the cloth of the Cloak. 'The magic  _does_  feel a little different, but, I don't know, I'd expect a Relic to be more...more.'

A single one of Andi's eyebrows ticked up. 'I am hardly an expert on the subject. Emma, on the other hand, is, so I would trust her judgement.' With a final, pointed glance at the Cloak, Andi turned to slump back onto the sofa next to Ted.

Ask if there was a note.

_What the hell is a Relic?_

Hazel, she  _really_  needed to know if there was a note.

 _All right, fine._  'Was there a note at all?'

Andi leaned forward in her seat, started flipping through the folds of the Cloak. She reached into a pocket Hazel hadn't even been able to make out, withdrew a scrap of parchment, then leaned back into Ted, picking up her drink again. Hazel unfolded the note, and she'd barely even gotten a glance at it before Lily knew. That was—

She'd hardly had the thought before Hazel caught it. 'This is Dumbledore's handwriting.'

'What, really? Let me see it.' With a slight sigh, Andi sat up straight again, took the note only to hand it over to Ted. Holding it up at an awkward angle, Ted squinted at the thing a moment before letting out a grunt. 'Past time I would say, you old coot. What exactly was Dumbledore doing all this time with a Potter heirloom, anyway?'

'Edward Tonks,' Andi said, voice low and cold, 'get that thought out of your head this second. We cannot tell anyone.'

'We can't tell anyone Dumbledore was illegally withholding invaluable magical artefacts from a House he was given trusteeship of, even  _years_  after it'd been taken from him? No, no, of course not, can't imagine why we might want to.'

'We shouldn't even admit Hazel  _has_  a Relic, and we  _certainly_  can't say which one! Forget suing Dumbledore over it! It can't happen!'

'Don't get all superstitious silly pureblood on me now, Andi. I thought you were over that sort of thing.'

'It is a  _Relic_ , Ted. Forget it.'

_Right, so, they just gonna keep arguing, looks like, and Dora appears to be in a coma. Mind explaining what a Relic is?_

Lily pondered for a second how to go about that, ignoring Andi and Ted bickering, Dora seemingly frozen against Hazel, the feel of her half-fascinated half-terrified. Right, okay. Hazel knew about the idea of high ritual, Lily had explained the concept before.

_Yes. I've never done one myself, of course, but I have read about them._

Right. So, Hazel would know most of these rituals, one way or another, involved petitioning some higher power for aide.

_Er. Yes?_

Hadn't Hazel considered the implications involved in the reality that  _something answered?_

...  _Oh._

Exactly. Oh.

Hazel stared down at the Cloak in her lap for a moment, feeling oddly still.  _So... You're telling me this thing was made by a god._

Essentially, yes. Death, to be more specific.

_Oh, shite,_ _**seriously** _ _? This cloak was made by the_ _**god of death** _ _?_

Yes. Well, sort of. Exactly how these things work is...complicated. See, there's really only one higher power — or one god, if you want to put it that way — and that is magic itself. However, magic reacts to the thoughts and feelings of all conscious living beings. How magic expresses itself, how it presents itself to humanity, is shaped by human concepts, by human expectations. Essentially, it shapes itself into what it is suspected to be. Enough people have some concept of an embodiment of death, their feelings involving death itself intense enough, that magic responds by creating one. Exactly how Death presents itself varies widely, depending on culture and sometimes even the individual, and while it certainly does exist, it wasn't entirely appropriate to think of it as something separate from the body of all ambient magic as a whole.

And yes, in case Hazel was wondering, there are plenty of thinkers out there discussing chickens and eggs. Lily simply believed this explanation made far more sense than any alternative theory she'd heard.

_What the hell do you mean, chickens and eggs?_

Well, it's the anthropic principle, at the heart of it.

_Yeah, I have no idea what that is, either._

It's a muggle idea, a rather modern one. Some people made the observation that life could only come into existence the way it has if the fundamental properties of the universe and how it functions are exactly the way they are. The anthropic is, very briefly, the suggestion that intelligent life is a constraint — the universe  _must_  be the way that it is, entirely to foster the evolution of life.

_I'm guessing you think that's silly._

It  _is_  silly. Yes, the universe may be exactly the way it must be to allow humanity to come into being, but it is rather silly to suggest the universe was fine-tuned to allow that. Humanity exists  _because_  the conditions are right — it is a coincidence, nothing more. It's the height of arrogance to assume the purpose of the universe is this tiny blip of life on a tiny speck lost in the unfathomable depths of time and space that make up reality. It's an absurd  _a priori_  assertion, and one step away from deism. Why exactly  _should_  the universe be fine-tuned to allow intelligent life, and exactly what would do the fine-tuning?

Same thing with magic. Some thinkers suggest magic is the way it is, and always has been the way it is, simply because that is the way it is. Gods exist because they do, independent. Others observe how even the simplest of magics react to our presence and our feelings, and instead suggest the reason "gods" exist, these avatars of inextricably human concepts came into being, because they arose out of the raw magic of this world  _in response to_  human influence. That without the human concept of death, there would be no Death. Lily thought the second theory was far more reasonable.

_Okay, I get it. Doesn't really seem to matter which one is true, though, does it? Doesn't sound like it would make a difference day to day._

Not really, but Lily wasn't going to just give Hazel the standard explanation when she was convinced it was false.

_Right, fine. Anyway. So, to get back to the point, Relics are things magic just made for people, then, all by itself._

Usually asked for one way or another, but yes. There are only a few dozen confirmed Relics in the world, each with peculiar magical properties that have proven either difficult or impossible to fully emulate. Mages have built up various superstitions about them, not entirely important to get into it. At one point, the Peverells, an extinct Noble and Most Ancient House that was very influential in its day, accumulated three Relics, all created by Death, and there is a  _huge_  wealth of myths and superstitions about them — hence Andi saying they couldn't admit which Relic specifically Hazel had, it could become a problem.

This  _was_  the Peverell Cloak, Lily had no doubt. James had told her all about it. She'd even examined it herself, out of curiosity. It was the only Relic she'd ever gotten her hands on.

 _Oh. Okay. Does_ _ **that**_   _make any difference? I mean, does it matter, that I have a Relic? Or, this particular Relic. Does it matter at all?_

Not really. Despite superstition, Lily wasn't convinced Relics did any more than, well, what they did. This one would make Hazel invisible. Undetectable by a whole bunch of other methods too, in fact, not just visual ones. That's all it did, really.

_I just have a fun magic thing, then?_

Yes. And they also had to wonder exactly what was so important about a comparatively useless Relic of Death Dumbledore held onto it for so long, breaking several laws in the process.

_Oh. Well, of course it couldn't be just a fun magic thing. It can never be just a fun magic thing._

Welcome to magical Britain, Hazel.

* * *

Hazel was in a bad mood. There wasn't one particular thing she could say had caused it. It was just a lot of little things, the state of everything in general, and it was making her quite annoyed.

Part of it was the other students being terrible. More terrible than usual, that is. For some reason, one she couldn't even begin to understand, it seemed a certain segment of the student body had decided Hazel was a rising Dark Lady. Except, that wasn't really it. She overheard people talking, sometimes, usually Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, about how it would have taken a very powerful mage to destroy "You-Know-Who" the way she had — which, of course, it  _had_ , but it had been Mum doing the destroying, not Hazel, she'd just sat there — and it had to be wondered exactly how that could happen. Only dark magic, they said, could counter dark magic like that. And look, Hazel had all this talent with wandless magic! Who'd ever even heard of wandless magic like that? She must have done some dark ritual or something, yes, that's what was going on, no doubt.

Pass over for a moment the ludicrousness of all that — first, Hazel wasn't sure exactly how a one-year-old was supposed to know this theoretical dark magic necessary to defeat the Dark Lord; second,  _everyone_  could do wandless magic if they tried hard enough, everyone here even had, what did they think "accidental" magic was? Like, assume what all these kids were saying was true, they  _believed_  it to be true. Their behaviour didn't at all fit the premise.

Imagine a budding Dark Lady  _was_  a student at Hogwarts, okay, and the other kids knew that. Hazel really didn't think they would act the way some of these silly people were. It had started rather tame, she guessed. Just a few odd glances here and there, an occasional shuffling away when she walked too close to someone in red or yellow, as though she were a carrier of a disease only Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were susceptible to. That was annoying, but not too bad, she'd been getting it constantly since the first day of school. They hadn't expected their precious Girl-Who-Lived to be in Slytherin, see. She'd read it just as a sort of social punishment, for not being the good little Light witch they'd thought she was, it hadn't been that much of a surprise. She'd always expected a bit of that to come up eventually, if not over something so small as being Sorted into Slytherin.

Honestly, she still didn't get why people made such a big deal over the Sorting thing. But anyway.

The escalation was slow enough Hazel hadn't really noticed it happening. The odd looks and the shuffling, yes, but eventually people started doing this really weird thing. She'd hear that odd sound, people making hissing noises through their teeth, coming from behind her. She'd glance over her shoulder, and it'd stop, only for it to start up again, some moment she wasn't looking. It was rather annoying, for how minor it was. There were days she'd covered her own head with a mild deafening charm — not so much to block  _all_  sound, but enough the hissing was gone. See, on her less patient days, she'd get the impulse to fling hexes over her shoulder at random whenever the hissing started up, which was  _probably_  not a good idea.

Apparently, just that didn't appease their inexplicable urge to aggravate her for long. Odd looks became glares or knowing smirks, shuffling became shoving, hisses became muttered comments. Nothing that bad, really. It wasn't like people were pushing her down stairs or anything, just little bumps here and there, an elbow in her side in passing. Annoying, of course, enough that, on those less patient days she had sometimes, she'd taken to slipping off to throw on the Cloak just to go from class to class.

And the comments weren't that bad either. They were...well, silly. On days she could get herself to not give a shite, it was almost even fascinating, the look it gave her into people's imagination. One thing she'd heard from people more than once was some implication that she'd been out, or was about to go out, depended on whether the night of the full moon was approaching or just passed, to sacrifice some sort of animal and/or muggle for...some reason, they never really seemed to think it through that far, to decide  _why_  she was supposedly doing this. Apparently that was a thing normal people thought super evil dark witches did? Which, yes, okay, most high ritual did involve the sacrifice of  _something_ , but there was always a purpose. Nobody went out ritually killing things just because, hey, full moon! It was so silly.

Of course, on her less patient days, those sorts of things were just aggravating. They were suggesting, sometimes outright saying, she was a crazy bloodthirsty psychopath two steps away from going on a black magic killing spree, which was just... Had she done  _anything_  to suggest this was at all a rational thing to be thinking? Sure, she would admit she probably didn't act like a normal kid most of the time — she still didn't get how to do that, honestly, how to talk to people her age and  _not_  come off weird, she hadn't found the right way to say things, the right things to say things about. People could be so sensitive about silly things, she always ended up saying something that made people look at her like she were mad. But, not the point. She was odd, yes, but she didn't see how odd should mean future omnicidal maniac.

Point was, sometimes lately she'd been walking around the school completely deafened. When she couldn't get away under her Cloak, anyway. Tracey and Daphne and Blaise had noticed this was going on, of course, and they tried to run interference on occasion, but mostly just walked along with her, not bothering to attempt to include her, since they knew without being told she couldn't hear them anyway. She was told Hermione had ranted at her more than once, and then gotten a bit pissy when she'd figured out Hazel hadn't heard a word, but Hermione had never actually mentioned it to her, so she figured she couldn't be that annoyed. Anyway, yes, she was still making it along without hexing someone, so it was fine.

Until recently, anyway. Starting in, oh, about late March, people had been trying to jinx her. Not successfully. It was always little sneaky shots at her back in the halls, never a real concerted effort to get her. Since she could always feel the magic coming, it was always a simple matter to step out of the way, she hadn't actually been hit with anything yet. Well, er, mostly. Someone had somehow gotten a potion into her tea one morning, and she'd spent half the day letting out loud, reptilian hisses whenever she opened her mouth. Luckily, she'd had Defence that morning, so nobody really noticed when she went off on her own for Mum to brew an antidote. (It wasn't like she ever went to Defence, which apparently was more evidence she was an evil dark super-witch, because she clearly knew all the Dark Arts already.) There'd been a couple little things like that, until she'd learned to feel the difference between something edible that just had a warming charm on it, and something edible that had been jinxed somehow.

If she knew who was doing it, she might have thanked them for helping her refine her ability to sense magic. Sarcastically, of course, and partially just to restrain herself from  _painfully_  hexing them into unconsciousness, but not the point.

It'd become easier to just...well, disappear under her Cloak whenever she had to be out in the halls. Which was incredibly frustrating. Okay, people were already being an enormous pain, and it was for  _nothing_. She'd done  _nothing_ , nothing at all, except be better than them at magic, and not a warm friendly nice person. It was just fucking ridiculous, she didn't understand.

And she  _really_  didn't understand, because, if she were to take them at their word, they were being annoying and terrible because they thought she was a future Dark Lady (whatever that was even supposed to mean). Now, Hazel hadn't ever met one before, but she had the impression annoying a Dark Lady was, well, extremely fucking stupid? Like, why would you want to make a target of yourself, if the person was so supposedly dangerous? If she actually  _were_  what these people were claiming they believed she was, wouldn't that just be opening themselves up to be brutally murdered at some later date in revenge for being terrible little shites? That... She just didn't get it.

Oh, and whoever it was who had started possessing Quirrel around the holidays kept trying to read her mind. Was giving her an almost constant headache, she avoided being within a hundred feet of him if at all possible.

Really, when Mum had first brought the idea up, she'd found the idea that she'd need to leave Hogwarts a bit ludicrous. An overreaction, it'd seemed like. Now, she wasn't nearly so sure. Everyone was being so absurd, over  _nothing_. And they didn't even know she wasn't human yet. She saw some of the shite Blaise got, and he wasn't even important, just some random kid. If they were freaking out so much over her not meeting their expectations by just being a Slytherin...

She wasn't sure staying would at all be wise. As people got more and more annoying, Hazel hiding herself away more and more, leaving for Beauxbatons was starting to look better and better.

Which led to the most recent assignment Mum had given her. It wasn't always about magic with Mum, she was very insistent that there were other things that Hazel had to learn to be fully rounded and such. In this particular case, she'd assigned a few books about Grindelwald, and the state of Europe in the decades since. She hadn't been entirely sure what the point was — preparing her for possibly going to the Continent for school, sure, but beyond that, she didn't really get it. One of those Mum things.

It was a bit interesting, though. For one thing, her assumptions about Grindelwald's revolution on the Continent had been  _entirely_  incorrect. She'd assumed, perhaps childishly, that Voldemort had been a Dark Lord, and Grindelwald had been a Dark Lord, so they would be rather similar. She knew what Voldemort had been about, so Grindelwald must have been the same. Turned out, "Dark Lord" was just what certain European cultures called wizards leading any sort of movement against the legitimate government, especially one who used any dark magic at all. There wasn't really any requirements they have a particular set of political beliefs, the term didn't actually mean anything.

Interestingly, according to Mum, and corroborated by some of her reading, Voldemort's followers called him a Dark Lord, but Grindelwald's did not. Fun fact.

Anyway, point was, Grindelwald's revolution had been nothing like what Hazel had assumed in ignorance. He was a pureblood, yes, but from a poor, nothing family. He had been kicked out of Durmstrang for using dark magic on a fellow student, but even the less sympathetic texts admitted he'd cursed a kid from a noble family in revenge for  _raping his younger sister_  — the noble kid, of course, hadn't been punished at all, hence the rage and dark magic. He'd traveled abroad for some years, returning with knowledge of esoteric magic virtually unknown in Europe, and started his subversive little radio programme, which Hazel had heard of before, in general terms. He'd gradually gotten more and more of a following, only increasing in fervency when the government had thrown him in prison, eventually forced by growing protests to release him again. A few years later, he and his followers had taken the government offices by force, slaughtering most officials in semi-organised tribunals. And the purges had started.

Hazel had heard of Grindelwald's purges before, but again, only in general terms. Grindelwald's revolution had involved purges, thousands of people had been executed, blah blah. But the details had been sketchy, and in important ways. Grindelwald's revolution hadn't been against muggleborns, or nonhuman beings, but against the wealthy, pureblooded noble families. It was the noble class who had been hunted down and murdered by the hundreds, their wealth appropriated by the revolutionaries. In a year, the aristocratic, autocratic system that had governed Saxony for over a millennium had been totally obliterated.

And the revolution had spread across the Continent, one nation after another falling to internal revolts, the commoners and the mudbloods and the nonhumans, the poor and the powerless, banding together to destroy the ruling class. Always supported, behind the scenes, by the revolutionary government in Saxony, each allying themselves with Grindelwald once they had taken control.

They didn't manage to take over the  _entire_  Continent, of course. In some cases, the old power structures had already been abandoned centuries before, so the revolution was unnecessary — Aquitania, Sicily, most Scandinavian nations, places like that. In a few places, mainly Spain and the Balkans, the revolutionaries failed, the establishment managing to effectively suppress the rebellion. A couple European nations, the revolution never even got off the ground — Britain, most prominently, but also a few smaller states like Albania and Hungary.

And, of course, the revolutionary governments hadn't stayed in power permanently. They'd dealt with internal resistance from the moment they'd taken power, and once Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald the various councils and tribunals promptly folded. But, Hazel now knew, that wasn't the end of the story. There was a short period of time — about a decade, though the exact length varied from country to country — where more conservative, counterrevolutionary voices were in control of the newly-formed governments. But, slowly, gradually, until...

Well. A former High Chancellor in France, first elected to the highest office in the Sixties, drew quite a bit of controversy for quoting Grindelwald in his public speeches. But such things had become perfectly acceptable, gradually over the years. One of Grindelwald's most famous one-liners — as usually translated in English:  _magic is magic, whatever the source_  — was a common idiom by this point.

Hazel folded the last book closed, letting out a sigh. It was interesting, she guessed, when she thought about it. People said Voldemort was Britain's response to Grindelwald, but she'd misinterpreted what they meant by that — the Death Eaters were  _countering_  Grindelwald's movement, espousing the exact opposite viewpoint. Which was a thing that happened, counterrevolution was a thing. And, well, it was  _also_  interesting, because Grindelwald's people had lost in the short term, the revolution had failed, but they'd still gotten what they wanted in the long run. The old aristocracy was gone, most European governments were now representative democracies, muggleborns and nonhuman beings had full equality under the law. So, they'd lost, but they'd won, which was interesting.

But, she didn't get why Mum had insisted so strongly she read up on this stuff. It was interesting, sure, but she didn't understand why it was so important to know about right now.

_Remember, that one time in Diagon Alley, I noticed a bunch of little things that have changed since I've been around. You asked why it was bothering me so much, and I suggested you read up on post-revolutionary Europe._

Vaguely. That was a while ago, and only a few seconds, but sure, that had happened.

_You don't see the connection?_

Hazel frowned to herself. Anyway, it really was time to be getting back down to Slytherin, so she pushed herself to her feet. The Cloak was over her head, and a quick dispel knocked out the avoidance charms she'd been hiding under. Starting on her way out of the library, she worked over Mum's suggestion in her head, quickly got the point she was going for. She was saying the same thing had happened in Britain. The Death Eaters had  _technically_  failed, but they were getting what they wanted anyway.

 _It certainly looks like it. They may not have been able to make their most radical of positions law, but the more subtle things? Diagon Alley has been cleaned up, there's no doubt about that. I've been paying attention to the papers, and_ _ **all**_   _the major players these days are wealthy purebloods from old families. They were the majority in my day, of course, but there_ _ **were**_   _prominent commoners, nonhumans, even a muggleborn rights movement with some significant sway. They're all gone now. The only real exception is Ní Ailbhe, and her family is wealthy and connected enough even she shouldn't count._

_As far as I can tell, magical Britain is even less welcoming to people like us than it was in my time. And it only appears to be getting worse. Which should be a surprise to no one: what else should we expect, when some of the most influential figures in governance are known Death Eaters?_

Oh, no, Mum forgot. They'd been magically compelled, remember? They weren't  _really_  Death Eaters.

_Right, of course, how silly of me._

Okay. Anyway. That all made sense, she guessed, the counterrevolution had won in Britain. Was that all Mum's point was?

_No, not really. It's more than that. It's more than Britain not being the most welcoming place for you. It hasn't gone away, Hazel. The commoners, the muggleborns, the various nonhuman peoples here, they haven't gone away, and they still have legitimate grievances. If anything, I'm sure things have gotten worse for them. But now, for going on a decade, they have no outlet, no hope._

_Too many people don't seem to realise it, but the conditions in Britain have gotten to the point all it will take is a single spark. This country is an overfull powderkeg, and one day it will all go up in flames. And you will, inevitably, be drawn into it. I really don't think you want to be here when it happens._

Nope. That wasn't improving Hazel's bad mood. Not even a little bit.

So, when Draco came with an escalation of the usual shite, she had far less patience for it than she normally might have.

She shucked the Cloak off in the hall outside the common room, folded it away under her robes — speaking the password would visibly open the barrier, no reason to draw attention to her casual invisibility if she didn't have to. An advantage better held secret, and all that. She took a few steps into the common room, meaning to head for her dorm, change for dinner. But she froze, barely a few steps in, frowning around the room.

Most of Slytherin had been gathered. Not everyone, a significant number of the upper years missing, but over half. The younger the year the larger the proportion of the class that was present, virtually all the first and second and third years she would recognise. (Though she noticed Tracey and Daphne and Blaise were conspicuously absent.) At the front, standing together, were the Slytherins Hazel thought to herself as the racism brigade. In her year, Draco — standing in the middle, tall and confident, clearly in charge of whatever this was — flanked by his bookends, boys so bland and uninteresting Hazel still couldn't consistently remember their names, Pansy, Millie, Theo. Joining the usual gang were a few second and third years Hazel didn't really know, only exchanged unpleasant words with a few times. Children of Death Eaters, mostly, according to Mum, a few sympathisers.

All stared at her, expectant, almost eager. The rest of the crowd was absent the racism brigade's vicious glee, but they were watching, apart, as though an audience at a show, waiting for the spectacle to begin.

_This doesn't look good._

No, really? Thanks, Mum, never would have been able to figure that one out herself.

Draco, his sneer bearing a sense of self-possession he hadn't managed with her since August, spoke down his nose at her the moment the entrance slid closed again. 'There you are, Potter. I was wondering how long we'd have to wait.'

She took another quick glance around the room. By the feel of the brigade, the sense of tense anticipation about them, it looked very likely that this might end up becoming a fight. She could probably handle just the brigade, but if the rest of Slytherin joined in, she was definitely fucked. 'Well, Draco, next time you should tell me I'm expected.'

'Unfortunately, if you knew you would have just hidden away again like a coward.'

Ah, yes, she knew the other students by now had figured out she had some way of disappearing, if not exactly what. It was one of the smaller points on the list of "evidence" people had she was a budding supervillain or whatever. 'Here I am, unhidden. What's this about, then?'

'We've been talking, you see.' The sneer shifted, becoming more a cold glare. Well, barely on the charts so far as cold glares went, not with Severus You-Are-as-an-Insect-Beneath-My-Heel Snape in the building, but it was obvious that's what it was supposed to be. 'You have never shown Slytherin House, the people in it, or even the institution of Hogwarts itself the respect it is due.'

'I'd say I'm showing exactly as much respect as all this is due, so, gonna have to disagree with you there.' There were numerous grimaces and mutterings of anger from the brigade, the rest of the Slytherins, but the response wasn't universally negative. She saw smirks cross a few faces, even heard a couple low chuckles from some of the older students. At least she was making the show entertaining for them, she guessed.

Draco barely reacted, just a twitch of an eye. 'You  _will_  keep to your place, Potter. Even if we have to make you.'

There was absolutely nothing Hazel could do to prevent the snort of laughter the thought drew from her. 'You think you can make me do, well, anything?  _You?_  That's adorable.'

One of the older students in the brigade — a third year, she thought, couldn't remember his name — let out a sharp, mocking laugh. 'You're either even more of an idiot than you look, or have a dangerously inflated opinion of your own abilities.'

Hazel shrugged. 'Neither, really. You wouldn't know, you don't have any classes with me, but  _really?'_  she said, giving the morons in her year an incredulous look. 'Have you been paying attention at all? I can't even  _remember_  the last time I used my wand in Charms class, and I have the transfiguration we're doing down without it by the end of the class maybe half the time. Take my word for it, you haven't seen a tenth of what I can do. Do you  _really_  want to make me angry?'

_Be careful, Hazel. Provoking them might not—_

No, she didn't care. She was so tired of this shite. She was done, she was just so  _done_. If they really wanted to make arses of themselves that badly,  _fine_ , she wasn't gonna try to be nice anymore, she'd respond in kind. These stupid, arrogant, self-righteous cunts deserved it.

_It's not really about deserving it or not..._

'The professors are helping you cheat somehow.'

Hazel could only stare at Draco, too dumbfounded to speak. That was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. Not only was the idea absolutely absurd — even if they wanted to do it, which was ridiculous on its own,  _how?_  — but Draco had said it with such easy confidence, as though it were an undeniable fact, one even the most dim-witted should be able to figure out for themselves. It almost hurt, trying to wrap her head around such idiocy, she couldn't do it.

By the expressions on the faces of many of the other Slytherins — with few exceptions, most everyone not in Draco's little posse — she wasn't the only one a bit thrown. A wave of muttering swept through the room, low and jumbled enough she couldn't follow any complete sentences, but she did pick up plenty of single words. "Troll" seemed to feature rather frequently.

She thought she might know why the Slytherins determined to put her in her place were a comparatively small proportion of the house. She had the feeling the rest suspected she might already be there.

'Well.' Hazel sucked at her lip for a moment, shaking her head to herself. Fucking idiots. 'You certainly aren't going to make me do what you want with sheer charisma.' She put a hint of derision on the last two words, taking some little satisfaction in the smirks she saw flickering across the crowd. 'If you want to make me submit, you're going to have to use force.' She shrugged. 'Go on, then.'

_Are you really going to get into a brawl with near on a quarter of the entire Slytherin class, in the middle of the bloody common room?_

Sure. What, did Mum think she would lose?

_You really are quite skilled at entirely missing the larger point, Hazel._

No, she got the point. The point was just stupid. She really couldn't be arsed right now.

Somewhat to her surprise, after glancing among themselves quick, they didn't even go for their wands. Draco gave his bookends a sharp nod, and, menacingly cracking their knuckles, the largest, blandest, dumbest wastes of oxygen she'd ever seen started thumping their way toward her. She waited until they were within arm's reach, hands rising to grab at her.

Reaching for her magic, power rushing through her veins in a cacophony of conflicting melody, Hazel flicked her fingers. The ponderous lumps of flesh were plucked bodily off the ground, slamming into the ceiling an instant later with a nauseating splat. Then they fell free, falling limp to the ground at her feet, already out cold.

In the sudden silence filling the room, Hazel snapped her eyes back up to meet Draco's. The shock and dawning fear on his face put an unconscious smirk on hers. 'I am in a  _very_  bad mood, Draco, and you are only making it worse. Do you  _really_  want to fuck with me right now?'

She could almost see the struggle going on inside playing out in his eyes. He must have honestly believed that stupidity about her not being as talented as she'd been proving herself to be in class lately, had expected this would be easy to do with the numbers he had. She could see the doubt there, could see Draco was second-guessing himself. Forcing her to submit to his wishes would have been quite a coup for him, but if, even with the weight of numbers on his side, he  _failed?_  That would be one hell of a humiliation, now, wouldn't it?

For a moment, a blessed moment, she thought his reason was overcoming his pride. That he would drop this nonsense, and leave her the fuck alone.

But, really, she should have known expecting Draco Malfoy to be reasonable was giving him far too much credit. His face clenching into a glare of resolve, wand falling into his hand, his prepubescent voice faltering into a screech, he yelled, 'Take her!'

Hazel sighed. Fucking idiots.

Fifteen hexes descended toward her all at once, but she could feel their approach, waves of static rising on her skin, knew instinctively where they would land. She slid two steps to the side, narrowed her profile slightly to let a stinging hex slip by, her hand already rising, tingling with magic. In the pause before the next volley, technicolour notes danced through her mind, bludgeoning hexes and banishing charms springing from her fingers one after the other, her muscles aching, spasming in their wake.

Most of the bludgeoning hexes were shielded against, or simply ducked around, spellglows continuing on to splash against shields raised by their audience. But they weren't ready for the banishing charms, spread across a far wider angle, much harder to shield against. A full half of her opponents were caught, flung backward sharply enough they were taken off their feet, tumbling into furniture or other students, the air filled with crashing and thumping and shouting — she smirked again at the sight of Draco flipping arse over teakettle, tumbling across a coffee table and onto the floor some metres away.

She couldn't cast a stunning charm wandlessly, but she  _could_  manage a sleeping charm, overpowered enough to overcome the adrenaline of the moment. She cast one after the other, her arm growing hotter and hotter, the ache turning sharper, piercing, but she ignored it, most of those left standing dropping before her like puppets with their strings cut. Most, because Pansy and a third-year girl she didn't recognised dodged and blocked, returning fire with a piercing and a blasting curse.

Hazel's free hand spasmed at the flash of fury taking her — those were  _potentially_ _lethal!_  — but she didn't let the feeling distract her, ducked out of the way. A bludgeoning hex took the older girl in the stomach, sending her to her knees, vomit splashing over the deep green carpet, and Pansy was plucked into the air with another levitation charm, another banishing and she was sailing across the room, meeting the glass wall at the opposite end with a low  _bong_.

_Damn, Hazel. Might have gone a little far with that one._

She was a witch. She'd be bruised, but fine.

_Still..._

Not all of the ones caught with the first round of banishings were down for the count, teetering to their feet with various degrees of steadiness. Hazel dodged more spells, putting those who used the more tame jinxes and hexes to sleep, anyone who used a more dangerous curse flung into various solid surfaces. It wasn't difficult at all, actually. She was channelling more magic than she usually did — wandless magic was less efficient, it was taking more out of her than it would with a wand — enough her arms were in agony, burning hot and stinging. But there were only a couple left, she could handle it, it would be—

From shortly behind her, hissed, ' _Lētiferās scuticās!'_

In a single, incandescent instant, before the curse could even leave Draco's wand, Hazel was consumed with overwhelming rage. It sprung as though from nothing, replacing the music of magic in her veins, brilliant and colourful, with something thick and black and ugly. She whirled on her heel, raising a hand toward the approaching curse, thoughtlessly. The magic flowed through her, hot and furious, filling her until she thought she would burst, and she stared down the deep purple spellgow, willing it to  _stop_ , the force of it becoming all she was, the magic thundering through her so fast and so powerful she was scorched with the force of it—

A voice that was not a voice was screaming in the background, but it was washed out, too quiet to be heard over the black fire consuming her, the one thought that was everything —  _stop stop stop stop stop—_

It wasn't going to be enough, she knew, even as the power gathered in her palm, blue and orange and black, she was too weak, it wouldn't work, she needed  _more_ , she  _needed_  it, it would come, she  _knew_  it would come, with that same unshakable certainty, threaded through everything she was —  _stop stop stop stop stop stop_ —

In an instant, she felt  _something_  shift, something she couldn't describe buried deep inside herself, and suddenly it was  _enough_ , and she felt her blood were boiling in her veins, char and blood on her tongue, but she ignored it all, focused only on the approaching curse, only on the will for it to  _stop_ , the magic flowing through her gathering into a writhing web of lightning every colour of the rainbow, crawling from the tips of her fingers all the way to her shoulder, snapping at the air around her, the carpet at her feet, grasping at the purple spellglow, pushing,  _holding_ —

Finally, separated from her skin by a bed of blue-orange, the curse came to a stop, halted an inch from striking her. And it stayed there, frozen in the air, crackling and shivering like hatred made flame.

The room had gone so abruptly still Hazel could hear her own breath, rasping deafeningly in her ears.

_Hazel, this is too much, you're hurting yourself, put it—_

That something, hidden deep inside, was still shifted out of the way, was still letting the world pour into her undiluted, it was a simple matter to reach out with ethereal fingers, slip threads of power along Draco's skin, lift the boy up into the air. She tied the threads tight around him, adhered them to the ceiling, and let go, leaving him suspended helpless in the air.

He still had his wand, of course. But since it was pointed up at the ceiling, and he could barely move an inch, all his struggling and yelling would do him no good.

Hazel straightened out of the crouch she'd sunk into, the curse moving with her, floating an inch from her hand, trapped by a web of iron lightning. And she looked up at Draco, some metres away, still pointlessly thrashing, face red with the force of his empty threats, the only moving body and only speaking voice in the room. She wasn't picking out a single word, but the noise was still quite annoying. 'Shut up, Draco.'

Perhaps it was the ice in her voice, deadly cold. Perhaps she'd unconsciously cast some sort of charm on him — the world was still pouring into her, incandescent darkness leaving her seared and empty. Perhaps it was the magic itself, wafting off of her like steam, turning the air heavy and hard. Whatever it was, Draco abruptly went still, silent, staring at her with wide, terrified eyes.

For some reason she couldn't describe, the sight made her smile.

_Hazel, stop, you don't want to do this, listen to me Hazel, you have to—_

'Draco, Draco, naughty cousin of mine...' Hazel walked closer, steps smooth and slow, the air about her shivering, the power of the world still rushing through her. 'This is very nasty curse right here.' She stopped, a couple paces away, turned to gaze at the flickering purple spellglow suspended over her hand. 'Very dark, I can feel it. Someone has been very  _naughty_ , teaching you this.'

She paused for a moment, glancing up at Draco, but he didn't respond, barely even twitched.

_Hazel! Snap out of it! You're going to—_

'Do you know what this curse does, Cousin? Hmm?' He didn't move to speak, still staring down at her, his throat quivering with a repressed whimper. Oh well, she could answer her own question. 'This is a flaying curse. Had this hit me, it would have peeled the skin from my flesh, a certain distance around the impact, very painful. Not illegal, and I would have lived, of course, but still.  _Very_  nasty, Draco. Doesn't seem very civilised of you, does it?'

The idiot boy finally recovered his voice, but he didn't have anything interesting to say. His voice high and panicked, he said, 'What are you all just standing there for?! Someone do something, she's gone bloody mad!'

' _I've_  gone mad?' Her lingering smile tilted, twisting into a sharp smirk. 'Do you have any idea what you almost just did? This is a dark curse, Draco,' Hazel said, shifting her hand a bit, the spellglow bobbing with the motion. 'It wouldn't have killed me, but it would never quite properly heal. You would have permanently disfigured me over a stupid, petty  _nothing_. The Lady Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived, assaulted with dark magic in the Slytherin common room. Do you think your precious father would have been able to protect you from the consequences of that?  _Really?_  And I'm the mad one.'

 _You have to stop this!_  The voice that was not a voice came with an odd pressure, soft against her thoughts, but it was too weak, the world flowing through her too strong.  _Let me in, Hazel!_

'Funny thing, you know,' Hazel said, voice turning light and absent. 'Lady of a Noble House and all that. I'm legally allowed to respond to any threat against my person with equal force. That's why they're all just standing there, you see. I have the right to respond with  _equal force_ , they know this.'

Of course, the world flowing through her turning the air thick and almost glowing with magic might have something to do with that. Not the point.

She lifted her hand, turned palm out, the purple spellglow quivering inches from Draco's thin, vulnerable chest. 'I was thinking,  _exactly_  equal force. Seems appropriate, don't you think?'

Draco didn't respond, a thin whimper slipping between his clenched teeth, head jerking as far away from her as he could. Which wasn't far.

'So, I'm thinking, where, oh,  _where?_  Your face, maybe...'

_Stop this, stop this right now! Listen to me, dammit!_

'But, no, that seems a little on the nose.' Her smirk twitched. 'Get it? On the nose?'

_Please, Hazel, please—_

'Maybe your arse, as in  _pain in the_. It would certainly hurt a bit every time you try to sit for quite a while, seems poetic.'

 _Stop this, stop stop stop_ _ **stop**_ —

'Though I suppose it doesn't really matter. Anywhere will do. You'll still never forget, you still never forget how unfathomably  _stupid_  you were today, you'll still never forget who the  _real_  mage between us is. Will you? I think we both know, now, which one of us is—'

'Miss Potter.'

She blinked at the unexpected voice, glanced away from Draco, to the side. Just a metre away, hands empty, face blank of any expression, was Sev. 'Oh. Hello, there.'

Voice low, quiet, somehow softer than she thought she'd ever heard it, he said, 'Drop the curse, Miss Potter.'

'Hmm.' She frowned at him for a second, glanced quick at Draco. 'I would really rather not. He made me  _very_  angry.' She felt her voice almost crack at the word, the power flowing through turning sharp, icy daggers slicing through her skin.

'Hazel.' She turned to stare at him, more confused than anything. Had Sev ever used her first name before? 'Drop it.'

She just looked at him for long moments, still barely containing the tempest of magic scorching her, curse still held inches from Draco's shuddering, whimpering form. And she considered him, watching her still and calm, eyes steady on hers. Not cold, not sharp, but...concerned? Pleading, she thought, almost even warm, for him. It was odd, and rather confusing, the thought weakening the blackness filling her enough she could almost have a rational thought.

Without really thinking, she said, 'Okay.' She dropped her hand, releasing her hold on the curse, dropping it to burn a blackened circle into the carpet.

'Thank you, Hazel. Now...' Slowly, cautiously, as though afraid she would explode on him, Sev lifted a single hand, fingers curled beckoningly. 'Come with me, into my office.'

Sure, why not. Hazel lurched into motion, and odd amount of effort necessary to get her moving. Sev lingered behind her for a moment, a pulse of magic she barely felt, thumping and shuffling and a chittering of voices. She wasn't paying enough attention to it, no idea what was going, just walked into the half-familiar office.

Sev stepped in just behind her, slammed the door closed, the wards snapping into place in his wake. A flick of a finger, a snap of magic in the air, and a tiny bottle whipped out of a drawer and into his hand. He held it out toward her, a potion. 'Drink this.'

Hazel blinked, faintly frowned at the unfamiliar silver-blue colour. 'What is it?'

'Sorcerer's Bane. You're overchannelling, Hazel, and if you don't stop, you are going to hurt yourself. Drink it, please.'

For a couple seconds, she frowned at the bottle, weathering Sev's even stare, the faint pressure of Mum, at the edge of her thoughts, quietly watching. Without really thinking about it, almost mechanically, she took the bottle from him, and threw it back.

The potion was virtually tasteless. That was the true danger of Sorcerer's Bane, Mum had said — it could be slipped into food, into drink, practically unnoticeable, making her helpless. She barely noticed its physical presence, but its effects took hold almost immediately. That  _something_  shifted again, but all the other way around, the stream of energy flowing into her abruptly cutting to nothing.

Suddenly empty, Hazel grimaced at the burning pain, seemingly spread across every inch of her, at its worst in her right arm, intense enough tears instantly sprang to life in her eyes. With the power of the world gone, all the strength fled out of her, and she would have fallen right to the floor if Sev hadn't caught her by the shoulders. She almost wished he hadn't — the pressure of his fingers against her was agonising, like blades cutting deep. 'I think it would be better if I healed you myself. Poppy would have too many questions.'

That was probably wise. It came very faintly, Hazel feeling all too worn out, as though all the energy had been forcefully wrung from her with some cruel magic, but she had the feeling she'd just crossed all sorts of lines that shouldn't be crossed. Pomfrey wouldn't be so bad, but she would call Dumbledore and, she had the feeling,  _that_...

'I'm afraid I have to...' Sev hesitated, and Hazel blinked up at him, her vision too unfocused to properly make out whatever expression may or may not be showing on his face. He sounded weirdly uncomfortable, was all. 'What are you wearing under your robes?'

She frowned. That was a weird question...

_He needs to examine you, Hazel. The robes would get in the way, but I'm assuming he's uncomfortable with the thought of, well._

Oh, okay then. 'Vest, pants.'

She couldn't see it very clearly, but she heard his wince easily enough. 'I suppose that will have to do. Come, then.' Sev's hands left her shoulders, but he caught her in a levitation charm of some kind before she could fall too far. She drifted through the air for a moment, the blurry room swirling around her. There was an odd fluttering of magic, her robes disappeared, and she was softly set down a second later. One of the armchairs in front of the hearth, she could make out the fire.

Sev, kneeling in front of her, glanced at the low embers, and they suddenly burst into new life. It wasn't until the warmth washed over her that she started shivering, the movement only making the constant, pounding pain worse. She hadn't even realised she was cold. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her jaw, choked back the impulse to groan.

_It's okay, Hazel. Overchannelling hurts. You're allowed to show it._

She wasn't going to.

_Why not?_

Because.

There was magic going on, but Hazel had her eyes closed, that potion had dimmed her ability to feel it out somewhat, she couldn't guess what. She winced as a spell prodded at her, she couldn't guess what kind, but it made her arm flare, almost succeeded in drawing a moan. 'Would you like something for the pain? By how much damage you did to yourself, I imagine it's unpleasant.'

Hazel hesitated for a short moment, but another spell stabbing into her made up her mind for her. 'That would be nice.'

She heard a soft huff, but whether from amusement or aggravation, she couldn't tell. A moment later, cool glass was being pressed to her lips. This potion took effect just as quickly as the last, and while it didn't numb the pain entirely it did do quite a lot, enough tension drained out of her Hazel hadn't even known was there, that she relaxed into the chair. She was silent a short moment, feeling Sev's healing spells or whatever prick and tweak at her. Finally, her curiosity won out. 'What the hell was that?'

'Which part?'

Her face pulled into a faint frown, the pressure increasing the dull ache for a moment. 'Draco made me  _really_  angry, and I got all... I dunno. Everything just went all black, and then there was too  _much_ , and...'

Somewhat to Hazel's confusion, the constantly prodding of spells stopped, absolutely nothing happening for some seconds. She was tempted to open her eyes, but no, too tired, fuck it. After a bit, Sev finally spoke, his voice suddenly sharp. 'Lily.'

'She's listening.'

'You have to be more careful. Your daughter has just clearly demonstrated she can't be trusted to control herself. She should have at least known the potential consequences. It was foolish to empower her as much as you have without explaining this sort of thing. You have endangered her needlessly.'

Hazel put words to the odd, aching silence coming from Mum. 'She knows. She's sorry.'

'I'm not the one who deserves her apology.' Sev let out a short sigh, so thin and soft Hazel could barely hear it. The spells started picking at her again, even as he spoke. 'Despite popular verbiage, there is no such thing as a mage who is any more powerful than another. Theoretically, all mages are capable of drawing the same volume of power from the world around them. People do differ in their force of will, but that can be learned, trained. The only real variable is how much energy a mage can physically tolerate channelling at one time.

'The human body is an inefficient conduit of magical energy. At sufficiently high concentrations, we will be incinerated from the inside out. However, repeated exposure over long periods of time will gradually increase a person's magical resistance, pushing that threshold higher, and higher, and higher. This is the only reason older mages are capable of more powerful magics than younger ones. A sufficiently strong-willed individual will be able to draw more energy than their body can safely tolerate. This is called overchannelling.

'It can be fatal,' Sev said, a sliver of the familiar ice sinking into his tone. 'Do  _not_  do it. Ever. Again.'

Hazel nodded. 'Mm-hmm.'

'Look at me.' She  _guessed_  she could do that. She was rather tired, that whole-body heaviness she only got on the hardest of days, but fine. She levered her eyes open with some effort, brought Sev into something approaching focus after a short moment of squinting. He had serious face on, all hard and glaring, eyes so cold they almost hurt. Which was odd, she wasn't certain how it was his eyes could do that. Staring at her, silently, he nodded down at her right arm.

She glanced down. 'Oh.' Most of her skin had gone a furious red colour — seemingly everywhere, but deeper across her right arm — as though Hazel had gotten the worst sunburn ever. Running from her fingers all the way up to about her elbow were a bunch of thin lines, forming a big branching web, as though mirroring the blood vessels beneath. These places were not red, but a charred black, bits of blood and something white and gross-looking peeking through.

Really, Hazel was more surprised than anything it didn't hurt worse than it did.

_Overchannelling also causes nerve damage._

That would do it.

'This is not something to play around with. You could have killed yourself, quite easily. Do  _not_  do it again.'

Hazel nodded, putting as much solemnity into at as she could — with how sleepy she was, she probably didn't do a great job. 'I won't. Or, I'll try not to, anyway. I didn't even mean to do it this time, you know.'

By the look on his face, Sev still wasn't entirely pleased with her. But he didn't say anything further, returned to running his wand along her arm. He was healing the burned strips, she noticed after a moment. The natural colour of her skin looked almost absurdly pale set against how red the rest of it was, kinda weird. She jumped when Sev suddenly spoke again, which hurt rather a lot, a great thump of agony from head to toe, she should try to avoid doing that. 'I do hope you didn't take nothing away from that little brawl of yours. If you're going to make an idiot of yourself, you should at least learn something doing it.'

'Mm-hmm.' The memory suddenly flashed behind Hazel's eyes, and she couldn't keep a faint smile from her face. 'I learned twelve-year-old girls cannot fly. Or maybe they can, and Pansy just needs to work on her landing, who knows. Guess I'll find out when I'm twelve.'

_You're a lilin. You **are** going to learn to fly eventually._

Oh. Forgot about that, yeah. Just when she was all birdy, though, right?

_Yes, Hazel, lilin can only fly when they're all birdy._

Didn't really think the sarcasm was necessary...

They fell into silence again, Sev gradually healing the damage she'd done to herself, Hazel just watching, and Mum... Well, she sort of wanted to say Mum was just sitting in a corner of her mind brooding — that's what the moody, slow darkness coming from her sort of made Hazel think — but she didn't think the word would be  _entirely_  precise. Not to mention she wasn't sure telling Mum Hazel thought she was brooding was very wise.

Hazel frowned at Sev, chewing at her lip. She vacillated for a few seconds before deciding she might as well tell him. It was very possible she'd be wanting him to send transcripts or something anyway. 'You know, I've been thinking.'

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, just for an instant before returning to his work. 'I shall attempt to contain my horror.'

'I don't think this is going to work out.'

'Things have gotten far more complicated than there was any real need for them to be. I will be having words with that cursed Hat.'

'No, I meant Hogwarts. I don't think Hogwarts is going to work out.'

Sev turned away from her arm again, giving her a completely unreadable look. It wasn't that he'd gone expressionless, expressionless was pretty normal for him, but she just wasn't certain what it was supposed to be. Eyes all slightly narrowed, an odd pull to his lips, no idea. 'You have been making things difficult for yourself so far, but I hardly think that is justification enough to give up.'

The words tumbled out of Hazel's mouth without any real conscious decision on her part. Keeping secrets was even harder when she was sleepy. 'Things will only get  _more_  difficult, though. Because I'm a lilin, see, people are going to get super stupid.'

'You—' Sev's mouth slammed shut again, hard enough Hazel heard a slight click of teeth coming together. He frowned at her for a moment, but not really  _at_  her, eyes slightly out of focus. Then he hummed, and turned back to her crisscrossing burns. 'That makes far more sense than it should. Clearly, the entire world has gone mad.'

Hazel repeated Mum's thought out loud. 'I'd say so — you are sitting here playing the nurse for an eleven-year-old girl.'

_Dammit, Hazel, why did you repeat that?_

It was funny.

_Some things are meant to remain unspoken._

Nonsense. Funny things were funny things. If other people took things too seriously that really wasn't her fault now, was it?

'I suppose you would like some materials on other magical schools.' Hazel did not miss that Sev, his eyes resolutely on his healing work, had completely ignored her last comment.

'That would be nice. Mum was thinking Beauxbatons.'

Sev nodded, somewhat absently. 'All right. I'll look into it, and we can discuss your options at a later date.'

'Mmkay.' If she were a little more together at the moment, Hazel might have been embarrassed when she suddenly broke into a long, noisy yawn, but at the moment she really couldn't give a fuck. 'I'm just gonna pass out now.'

'You do that.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ptolemy] —  _In case anyone is wondering, no, Lily isn't referring to **that** Ptolemy. There was a time it was a not uncommon name, especially in Hellenistic Egypt. The Ptolemy Lily is referring to was a Greco-Egyptian scholar of magic from the same time period (Second Century C.E.) and even the same city (Alexandria) as the Ptolemy famous for his rendition of the geocentric model, but not the same person._
> 
> [Alexandrian] —  _Lily is referring to a scholarly dialect of Demotic Egyptian, by the way. It's not used irl, it's a magical British translation of a magical Egyptian term, made up._
> 
> [ _They told me Petunia and I were adopted when I was, like, six._ ] —  _Only a thing in this fic, by the way. In most of my other fics, Petunia and Lily are full sisters. I know some people often try to come up with some justification for why they look so different, often saying they're only half-sisters or Lily is adopted or something, but, well, sometimes siblings look different. It happens._
> 
> [Lētiferās scuticās] —  _Literally "lethal whip", in the accusative. Curse is described in text._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Somewhat abrupt ending, I know. I realised I could have gone for another few thousands words easily, this being me, and I'm already loopy from not sleeping much lately, so the chapter would probably end up delayed another couple days. If it's slightly awkward, fuck it, here it is anyway xD_
> 
>  
> 
> _Oh, I forgot to mention, there are a couple more review responses to guests on that silly forum, in case anyone was curious. Both of which involve far more rambling than necessary, good times._
> 
>  
> 
> _First year will be finishing next chapter already. Should also have our first look at Beauxbatons — all that worldbuilding I did ages ago will finally be useful for something. Yay?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	7. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what is up with that Quirrel guy anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This whole thing was originally going to be the first scene of three in this chapter, but then, well... **me**  happened, and it ballooned like crazy. No idea what I was thinking, that it would fit, past!me is clearly insane. Anyway, after delays from work being a bitch, it's finished, so...Imma just post this scene._
> 
>  
> 
> _See author's note for a change to the update schedule._

The world suddenly snapped into existence, Hazel fully awake in an instant. It took her a moment, dark-adjusted eyes stinging from soft yellow light, to realise she wasn't in her room. Well, obviously, she couldn't be in her room — the light was the wrong colour for one thing, but she generally woke up, you know, in bed, and she appeared to be being levitated at the moment. She had no idea what was doing the levitating, but that was the only thing that made sense, given that she was hanging at an odd angle unsupported in the air, surrounded by a fluttering of magic. With the angle she was at, she could mostly just make out most of one nearby wall and a bit of ceiling, but she didn't recognise the room — by the colour and faint flickering painting every surface, it could be anywhere in the castle lit by a flamelight enchantment, which was most of it.

Her body might be fully awake already, but her brain hadn't quite caught up yet. All she could do was absently wonder what the fuck was going on.

 _I'm sorry, Hazel._  Mum was there — of course she was, she was always there — feeling unusually tense. Like a spring compressed, wards crackling an instant from release. There was a faint tingling at the base of Hazel's neck, trailing a few inches across her shoulders and down her back, which she somehow knew was Mum holding back an inch from taking active control. Somehow, because that wasn't something Mum had actually done before, not sure exactly how she knew that.

But anyway, she had no idea what Mum was apologising for. What the hell was going on?

_His concealment spells were too good, I didn't notice him coming until it was too late. And his stasis spell was far too powerful, fucking bastard..._

Who was Mum talking ab—

'Quiet, good. If I'd had to deal with any screaming I would have been most annoyed.' Hazel frowned, turned toward the voice, and only frowned deeper when she found the figure, standing at a rather funny angle, with how she was floating. Because, well, if there were  _anyone_  she'd expect to snatch her out of her bed and drag her off somewhere in the middle of the night, Quirrell would have been pretty near the end of the list.

Of course, it wasn't Quirrell, not really. It did look like him...sort of. He was dressed rather differently than usual, his especially baggy robes substituted with simple black tunic and trousers, the infamous turban missing, but it was definitely the same lanky, thin, large-eared wisp of a man. He looked much worse than he had at the beginning of the year, face gaunt and eyes bloodshot, skin noticeably yellowed, angry red sores sprouting all over his bald head. Which was to be expected. This wasn't really Quirrell. It looked like him, it was his body, but Quirrell hadn't been home for about a half a year, since at least the beginning of classes in January.

Mum had explained that true possession was less than beneficial for the host's health. Hazel hadn't noticed any difficulties only because, due to a quirk of the magic binding Mum to her, this was her body as much as Hazel's — it didn't count as possession when Mum took over, technically speaking. Mum had tried to explain exactly how that worked, but it had gone  _way_  over Hazel's head, something about Mum supposedly being magically constructed and not a real person. (Which still bothered Hazel, the rare occasions Mum thought to bring up that stupid old argument, not important right now.) Point was, with how often Mum did things, if it  _were_  true possession Hazel would have died of multiple organ failure by now.

It looked like Quirrell was well on his way. She caught the thought from Mum that the yellowish tone to his skin and sclerae was probably an early sign of catastrophic liver damage — he could still walk around and do stuff, but whoever it was riding Quirrell around would need to find a new poor sod to fuck up pretty soon. Not that they had any idea who it was. Mum had come up with a few theories, but each was as likely as any other, and could easily be someone she'd never even heard of before.

But anyway, weird things were going on, and she'd been directly spoken to, Hazel should probably stop babbling away in her head and actually participate. This did seem like rather a serious deal going on here. It took her a short moment to figure out how to respond. 'Would screaming really accomplish anything?'

The patch of skin that would have been Quirrell's right eyebrow if the hair hadn't fallen out a month ago curled upward. 'No.'

'No real point in wasting the oxygen then, is there?'

For a long second, Quirrell simply stared at her. Hazel felt a faint pressure against the edge of her mind, but a diffuse one, apparently not an effort to reach inside. And, it could have been a trick of the light, but she thought Quirrell's irises had a peculiar reddish tint to them, it was weird. 'You are a very peculiar child.'

'Well, I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume you're a very peculiar man.' Hazel frowned to herself again. 'Woman? I suppose I don't know. You could be a bloody goblin in there, for all I know.'

Quirrell's face twisted into a grimace of distaste, but his voice still came out casual. Well, as casual as it could sound with the cracking hoarseness he'd apparently developed. 'You noticed that, then. I was wondering if you had — given your mother's talents, I'm not even particularly surprised.'

Hazel snorted. 'Okay, even without being able to feel it, I should think I should notice the physical signs of hostile possession, at least.' Speaking of which, why hadn't anyone else—

'You'd be surprised. The residents of the castle, with a few special exceptions, are all convinced Quirinus is dying of some obscure degenerative disease.' Oh, that almost made sense, okay. 'In any case, you were right the first time. My name in life was Thomas Gaunt.'

The anticipatory tension about Mum suddenly grew far harder, the tingling along her back so sharp it was painful. Hazel was confused, but only for a moment.  _Fuck. It's_ _ **him**_ _. Of course it is. Why should I have believed for even a second it could_ _ **possibly**_   _have been anyone else, fuck, fuck,_ _ **fuck**_...

Oh. Well. Voldemort had been one of the possibilities on Mum's little list. This might get a little bad.

 _To put it lightly_.

After a second to wet her lips — really, Hazel was just stalling, giving herself time to work the quiver out of her own throat — she said, 'Ah. Hello again, Mister Voldemort.'

The most feared Dark Lord in British history gave her an odd look only an inch short of dumbfounded. 'You know, I don't think anyone's ever called me that.'

Hazel shrugged. 'You're not  _my_  lord.'

Okay, she  _really_  hadn't expected that. That was definitely a smirk twitching at his lips, no matter that it had been almost entirely suppressed. She almost entirely missed his flatly-delivered, 'Quite,' she was thrown that hard.

_He can be surprisingly affable when he's in one of his less unpleasant moods. He spent most of our second duel teasing and joking, it was surreal._

... Okay, then. Not really behaviour she'd anticipated, what with how people talked about him all the time, but sure.

'Now, Hazel — is it alright if I call you Hazel?'

She just shrugged again. Honestly, she still found the protocol British mages stuck to so religiously a bit absurd.

'I hope you'll not hold the methods I used to get you down here against me.' His voice had gone all smooth, somehow deep and expressive even through the cracking and wavering. She also caught a trace of magic in the air, tingly and warm and soft, but it was so faint she had to wonder if he was even doing that on purpose. 'I am swiftly running out of time, you see, and I had no way of knowing if I could convince you to cooperate swiftly enough to avoid making an inconvenient disturbance. This is what happens when you skip every single one of a professor's classes — I have to rely on second-hand information, not ideal.'

This was...odd, odd was a good word for it. Considering he had just a second ago confirmed he was  _the Dark Lord Voldemort_ , he was acting unsettlingly normal. She wouldn't say friendly, exactly — it was hard to come off as properly friendly when covered in those nasty-looking sores, not to mention the way he still had her magically trapped — but very far from actively malevolent. The smooth, slightly tongue-in-cheek way he had of talking was actually reminding her of Sev, but a bit warmer, which was an unnerving enough of a thought by itself. If Severus Snape was being warm and friendly, she'd check for polyjuice.

She was distracted enough just by the  _way_  he was saying what he was saying it took her rather longer to put it together than it should have. 'Are...you saying you're not going to be murdering me, then?'

That odd smile twitched at his lips again. 'I wasn't planning on it, no. At least not tonight.'

Hazel almost had to laugh at that last bit. She probably shouldn't find amusing the Dark Lord casually admitting to the desire to murder someone at some later date, especially when she was the potential victim, but it was just funny, she couldn't help it. 'Not that I'm trying to change your mind about that, but why the hell not? I mean, last time we were in a room alone together, you cast a blood-boiling curse on me.'

Surprise showed on his face for a second, but only for a second. A sardonic tilt to his lips, he said, 'Make no mistake, I do intend to kill you eventually. But I don't know what your mother did to you to make you...' He paused, the smile fading to be replaced with a thoughtful look, eyes narrowing not on Hazel but the air around her. '...well, the way you are. Whatever she did left echoes that linger in your blood and soul to this day, and I am unsure what would happen were I to try to harm you. Until I fully understand what happened that night, I will not be casting any harmful magic on you. Or even touching you, just to be safe.'

Hmm. 'Okay, can I ask a possibly stupid question?'

Voldemort didn't say anything, just ticked a non-eyebrow up again.

'Why  _do_  you intend to kill me eventually? I never really did get an explanation for why you wanted to kill me so bad the first time, either.' You don't use blood-boiling curses to kill people you don't give a fuck about, after all.

Again, she'd managed to surprise the bloody Dark Lord, and this time the expression stayed on his face, his shock apparently strong enough he couldn't immediately wipe it away. 'You don't know.'

'Know about what?'

_This is going to be about the prophecy, isn't it._

What prophecy?

With a sense of forced casualness, he said, 'There is a prophecy.'

'What prophecy?'

'I'm surprised. I'd assumed Dumbledore would have informed you. You are meant to be his little champion, after all.' Under the guise of civility, under the cracking weakness, there was a distinct note of derision on his voice.

Hazel snorted. 'Me and Dumbledore aren't exactly buddies. We've had  _one_  conversation in our entire life, during which he implied I was a liar, argued for sending me back to my shite relatives, and then tried to read my mind without permission. Fucking hurt, too. So, yeah, he hasn't told me much of anything about anything.'

'Curious.' And it did seem Voldemort thought it was curious: his reddish eyes had narrowed slightly, taking her in with an intense, thoughtful focus. He was clearly thinking, reevaluating something he'd thought he'd known. For a long moment, he stared, before finally shaking himself and moving on. 'I don't know the entire body of the prophecy, you understand, but the portion I do is damning enough. It said the one person with the power to defeat me would be born at the end of July to those who had three times defied me. After some deliberation, I decided it meant you. You can't expect me to allow a threat to my existence remain unaccounted, do you?'

Huh. That was...interesting. Why hadn't Mum ever brought this up before?

_Because it's over already._

What?

_The prophecy, it's fulfilled. It was fulfilled that Hallowe'en. I didn't think there was any reason to mention it._

Oh. So the power to defeat the Dark Lord Hazel was supposedly going to have—

— _was the protection I gave you with my ritual, yes. Arguably, one could make the case it's still in effect, and the "Power He knows not" is myself. That is stretching it a bit, though. I think it's more likely it was meant to refer to his quasi-death ten years ago._

Right. Anyway, Hazel just had a thought. Couldn't she—?

_Oh, yes, that might work. He did say he needed your cooperation for some reason anyway. Go ahead and give it a try._

'It says I  _can_  defeat you.' She returned Voldemort's raised lack of eyebrow with one of her own. Er, an actual eyebrow of her own, she meant. 'Not that I  _will_ , but that I  _could_.'

The questioning look collapsed into a faintly confused sort of frown. 'So far as I am aware? Yes.'

'So, I  _could_  just choose to...not.'

The frown only grew more intense. 'Theoretically.'

'Well, that seems the reasonable thing for me to do.' When he gave her another disbelieving look, Hazel shrugged — or, she  _tried_  to shrug, at least, the magic holding her in the air was a little restrictive. 'I mean, let's be honest here, you're almost certainly going to make it back to life eventually. And you have far more experience, know way more magic than I do. And, even if I  _do_  manage to beat the odds and win, that you survived dying the first time means you have  _something_  keeping you here, which means I'm doubly fucked if I'm your enemy. A truce seems the smart thing.'

Again, he just stared at her for long seconds, frowning at her as though she were the most absurd, confusing alien creature he had ever seen. 'You are a  _very_  peculiar child.'

'I've been told.'

'I'm sure.' And he continued staring at her, which she really rather wished he wouldn't. If they were talking, there were things to distract her — from those gross-looking sores all over his visible skin, from that inhuman reddish tint to his eyes, from the fact that she was calmly talking with the genocidal maniac who had murdered her parents, that constant tension that was Mum holding herself an instant from violence. In the silence, she couldn't help being all too aware of them, and that was bad, it wouldn't exactly make her attempt at a ceasefire here easier if she seemed too hateful or disgusted. Finally, he was speaking again. 'And I should take you at your word, of course.'

'Of course.' He pinned her with a flat, humourless look, so she said, 'Well, then, just assume I'm not an idiot. There's no way I could possibly win against you. At least not before you could kill me first — which you definitely just proved, with the stealing me out of my bed in my sleep bit. So, why would I want to fight you? Seems rather suicidal to me. If there's any way I can get myself established as a neutral party in this whole Dark Revolution gig you got going, that's what I'm doing.'

'And that wouldn't bother you? Cooperating with the man who murdered your parents in cold blood?' Well, couldn't fault Voldemort for a lack of self-awareness — wording it like that, to Hazel's face and delivered so casually, he knew  _exactly_  what he was.

Hazel attempted another shrug. 'A little bit, I suppose. But, honestly, I can't work up that much rage over that. I mean, it's not like I even remember them, is it?' And she wasn't even lying about that part. It'd occurred to her before, when she'd realised Voldemort was certainly still out there somewhere, and they'd probably run into each other eventually, that she couldn't summon up much personal outrage on the subject at all. Sure, he was definitely a horrible terrible person, and it would be better for everyone in general if he didn't exist, and if an opportunity to knock him off without too much personal risk came up she'd take it, but she just wasn't that emotionally invested in the whole Voldemort thing. For a moment, she'd been wondering if that meant she was just a shite person.

But, when she thought about it, it'd be a bit silly for her to be. She meant, sure, wanting vengeance against someone who'd murdered someone close to you was perfectly understandable. But she  _hadn't_  been close to her father. (She meant, she understood James Potter wasn't her father, not biologically speaking, but she still thought of him as her father and, since he still was legally, she didn't see a reason why she should make the effort to stop.) Anyway, point was, she didn't even  _remember_  her father. It all felt too far away, too abstract, it was hard to take personally. And, yes, he'd killed Mum too, but Hazel had only ever known Mum post-death. It was all she'd known, and it was honestly a little hard to imagine what life would be like if Mum  _weren't_  in her head, if her parents  _were_  still alive.

Yes, it was  _wrong_  that he'd killed them, she and Voldemort would never be buddies, and she wouldn't say no to making him pay for it, if the opportunity presented itself. But, if the opportunity  _didn't_  present itself? It wasn't that she  _didn't care_. She just didn't care  _enough_  to risk her life over it. And, honestly, it seemed a little absurd to her that someone would expect otherwise.

Though, she still had felt a little guilty about it, until Mum had said she'd rather Hazel keep her head down. The  _whole point_  to their sacrifice was to ensure she lived, Mum  _didn't want_  Hazel to put her life on the line fighting Voldemort. And Mum was sure her father would agree. Seeking vengeance for their deaths wasn't worth Hazel's life.

And she'd apparently meant it, since she had signed off on Hazel's plan to try for a truce just a minute ago.

Anyway, Voldemort was giving her another long, analysing look, broken only by the slight wheeze of his dying lungs. Finally, his lips pulled into an odd, sardonic smile. 'I suppose I should have expected something like this. I'd occurred to me to wonder if Dumbledore had maneuvered you into Slytherin as part of some asinine plot to redeem my old house, but that you would belong there makes far more sense.'

Hazel nodded. 'The simplest explanation, and all that.'

The smile twitched wider. 'Quite. At some level, I anticipated the usual self-righteous, moralistic theatrics. I should have given you more credit, my mistake.' With a casual wave, the magic holding her in the air was dismissed; he cancelled it gradually, moving bottom to top, so her feet had time to swing back and catch her before she fell all the way. She still teetered a bit, but she managed not to fall over at least. While she idly straightened her nightdress, he started talking again. 'So, I offer you a truce, Hazel Potter. To the best of your ability, help me acquire what I seek today and, in future, do not act against me or oppose me in my efforts, and I shall guarantee your safety from me and mine. Do nothing to make yourself my enemy, and you shall not be harmed.'

'Extend that protection to my family and friends, and we have a deal.' His eyes narrowed a touch, so she went on before he could say anything. 'Hey, that's only fair. You can't expect me to do nothing if you and your little peons are going around hurting people I care about. And that's really not that many people, when it comes down to it.'

He was still frowning a bit, but by the hesitation Hazel was sure he was considering it. 'That would be acceptable, with a few additional caveats. It is not inconceivable your people might choose to take action against mine. Your cousin Nymphadora in particular — I have it on good authority she wishes to become an Auror, and her chances at succeeding are rather high. I cannot promise none of them will be harmed if they choose to involve themselves. However, I can tentatively agree not to target any of them specifically. Should one of my people harm one of yours of their own volition, and should you seek retribution against  _only_  the perpetrator, I would not consider our accord broken.'

Mum?

_Take it. It's only a verbal agreement, so we'll still be watching our backs, but you're not going to get any better._

Right. 'Deal. So,' she said, drawing the word out with a glance around the empty stone room, 'what exactly was it you wanted my help with?'

'Behind you—  _Don't_  look yet,' he snapped as she started to turn. She abandoned the half-started glance over her shoulder, trying to look appropriately sheepish. 'Behind you is a mirror. It was enchanted some two hundred years ago to show he who looks into it what he most desires. Over the winter holidays, Dumbledore modified it, and is using it to hide something I need. After months of examining the cursed thing, I finally discovered how it works: it will release the object only to someone who wants to retrieve it, but not use it. Quirinus is deteriorating rather more quickly than I had hoped, and I do not have time to devise a method to break the enchantment. Instead, Miss Potter, I would like you to retrieve it for me.'

Seemed reasonable enough. And, better yet, it wouldn't cost her anything, all she had to do was look in a damn mirror. 'What is this object, anyway?' Voldemort's borrowed face started sinking into a glare, so she said, 'Hey, now, none of that. I don't really care. I'm just curious what's worth all this effort.'

He frowned at her for a moment, as though searching for some sign she was lying — be quite a feat if he found one, considering she wasn't. Finally, his expression faded back to a pleasant sort of blankness, and he gave a little shrug. 'I can't imagine you would find it that interesting. Suffice to say, it is a singularly rare magical device the Headmaster agreed to keep safe for an old teacher of his. I will say no more.'

Though, apparently, he'd said enough. Mum was suddenly hot and intense in the back of her mind, writhing with such a powerful frustration it could only be expressed with a simple,  _God fucking_ _ **dammit**_ _!_

Okay. Mum was going to have to explain that one.

 _I think I know what it is. And of course,_ _ **of course**_ _, it was going to be something like this! The universe and its old habit of bloody_ _ **taunting**_   _me, I should have expected it._

Oh. Er. What was it, then?

_It's an artefact, gifted to the Green Lady thousands of years ago. Alchemists have spent all of history trying to replicate it, and none have succeeded — even the Green Lady herself only managed to split the original one into seven._

Hazel had no idea who the hell this Green Lady person was, but that wasn't important right now. So, Voldemort was after an artefact. Why was this a big deal?

 _Because, I_ _ **want**_   _this artefact. If I'm reading that hint correctly, it's Flamel's philosopher's stone — he ended up with one of the seven pieces ages ago, that's what Europeans call it._

Okay. And what was the philosopher's stone?

_It's a magical device that can make any transfiguration or conjuration performed by the bearer permanent._

Oh. Right, that  _did_  sound neat. But why was that—?

 _I want it for the_ _ **same reason**_   _he wants it! Hazel, if I have the stone, I can make a new body for myself in_ _ **ten seconds**_ _! Half the problem would be solved, just like that!_

Oh. Fuck.

_Fuck is right!_

So, they were going to have to fight him for it, was what Mum was saying.

_I don't know. I don't know if we can win. I just have to push him hard enough he burns Quirrell out, but I'm not exactly at my best either._

Half of her concentration on her conversation with Mum, she couldn't pick out exactly what Voldemort was saying to her at the moment. It was clear, though, that she was being told to turn around, and get a look at that magic mirror this was all about. So, keeping in mind she  _did_  want to use the thing that was in it, which should prevent the magic from doing anything and forcing the issue, Hazel turned around. It was a rather pretty mirror, taller than her head, the frame all intricately carved with little swirly things accented with gold filigree, kept in good enough condition it was only slightly tarnished, the image in the mirror surface itself only slightly washed out. Considering how old it supposedly was, that actually wasn't bad at all — she'd learned enchantments to preserve things like this only worked so well. Well, unless it was goblin-made, they had some way of cheating and making things seem as good as new basically forever, but they'd never shared it with humanity. There was a slight delay, a faint whiff of foreign magic blowing through Hazel's mind, and her image on the mirror wavered, the room around her blurring.

_You'll have to convince him somehow that the mirror won't give it to you. Which, now that we want it, I suppose it won't. We can— Hazel, what the hell is this?_

Hazel frowned — apparently, this was what she most desired.

_Well, yes, obviously, I just..._

What?

_I mean, I just..._

She wasn't entirely sure what was making Mum so uncomfortable. And she did seem uncomfortable, that intense focus she'd had ever since Hazel had woken up blunted somewhat by something shifting and awkward. It didn't seem that big a thing to her. That was Hazel right there, and that was Mum right there — she recognised her because she looked just like she did in those pictures Andi had tracked down, if a little older. And Andi and Ted were there too, of course, and Dora, identifiable mostly by the eye-watering pink of her hair. There a few more kids bunched around Hazel and Dora she didn't recognise, most obviously younger than Hazel. She didn't recognise any of them because, of course, they didn't exist, but it was pretty obvious who they were supposed to be. That boy right there had Mum's eyes, that one had Andi's pointy nose, that little girl — clutching at the hem of Hazel's dress, tiny little thing, maybe three years old — that one had a familiar head of hair, an asymmetrical mess of night black, the tiny one Ted was holding seemed to have hair that couldn't pick a colour, randomly fading from a blondish-brown similar to Ted's, to red, to blue, to black, and back again. All crowded together, not enough space for a finger between them, giggling at some silent joke.

But anyway, she didn't seem what was so weird about this. It seemed...nice, it seemed nice.

_Well, sure, it's just... I mean, we, er..._

Suddenly, Andi, standing between Mum and Ted, jumped, her eyes going wide. And, Hazel noticed much as had happened any time Ted did something she considered inappropriate in front of Hazel and Dora, her cheeks even noticeably pinked. It was hard to tell, with all the kids in the way, but it looked like Andi stomped down with a foot. Her robes shifted in a way they shouldn't, and then she was jerking an elbow backward, which made her robes shift even more. An easy flick of Mum's fingers, and there was Dad, hair even messier than usual from the Cloak being dragged over his head, face scrunched in a pained look — probably from getting an elbow in the stomach.

Hazel wasn't at all surprised by him suddenly appearing, she'd expected it. Her little sister had his hair, after all.

_It's just, I get the feeling that, er..._

The scene in the mirror kept moving, as Dad darted away from a furious-looking Andi, ducking behind Ted — more particularly, she expected, the baby he was holding. And then Andi was ranting at him, punctuated in the middle with Ted shooting Dad a quick high-five over his shoulder, which only made Andi even angrier, the kids giggling at another silent joke, Dora whispering something to Hazel that had her and the boy next to her nearly bent double from laughter. Mum slipped against Andi's back, barely enough room between kids to guess her arm had gone around Andi's waist, and leaned in toward her ear, whispering something. Whatever it was, Andi smirked, Dad visibly paled, and Ted broke out into cackling.

_Yeah, see, that. Are all of us, me and James and Andi and Ted, supposed to be, you know..._

Yes?

_Was that asking to clarify what I mean, or a confused acknowledgement?_

The second one. She meant, yes, it was obvious that's what was going on here. See, the boy with Mum's eyes had brownish hair like Ted's, and the girl with Dad's hair looked like she'd have Andi's glare down when she was older, the way her face was.

_Well, yes, I did notice that. I just mean, er..._

What?

_Nothing. I just, I wouldn't have thought of, you know. This._

Why not? She meant, obviously she wanted the Tonkses around, this seemed the best solution. Also, more brothers and sisters, yay. Why, was this, she didn't know, bad?

_No, I'm not, I don't know, annoyed at you for wanting this or anything. It's just... It would never happen. You know it would never happen._

Yeah, she knew that, her eyes flicking to where her father was still hiding behind Ted. He was dead, after all, and unlike Mum he wasn't coming back.

 _Well, there's that. Also, James and Andi_ _ **are**_   _cousins._

So?

_I get that you really don't care about that but, Hazel, other people do. Not to mention, er, this sort of thing is not at all accepted in magical Britain. Or, in the Noble Houses, at least. Getting James and Andi to go along with it would be problematic. Not to mention that, since we're lilin, and some of these kids are supposed to be mine, it's biologically impossible. And James and Ted didn't exactly get along._

Oh, really? She hadn't known that.

_Yeah. This is just...completely impossible._

Hazel knew that. It seemed nice, though. She would like a big family, she thought, with baby sisters and brothers and all. And, well, two parents weren't really enough, were they? If there were gonna be this many kids.

The uncomfortable feeling coming from Mum's part of her head broke somewhat, split with a warm kind of amusement.  _You're not wrong there. And, well, even if I do kinda hate that I can't... I mean, it would be okay if, er..._

Mum was going to remember how thoughts worked any second here, of course.

_I just mean, I wouldn't be angry. If you wanted to start calling Andi and Ted mum and dad, or something. I'd, well, I wouldn't be ecstatic about it, but I would understand. You can do that if you want, it's fine._

Oh. Well...no, she didn't think she'd be doing that. It would just be kinda weird, wouldn't it? She guessed it wasn't outside the realm of possibility she might change her mind at some point in the future, but no, that'd be weird.

Anyway. With some effort, Hazel pulled herself from the pleasant fantasy in the mirror, the effort almost painful, something deep inside jarring as she tried to bring herself back to this whole life-or-death-situation thing. A last deep breath, and she forced her face into a stern stare, fixed on the silver choker Mum was wearing, a gleaming red-purple gemstone held close to her throat, and tried to  _think serious thoughts_. Okay. Okay. What was the plan?

_You're adorable, Hazel._

That wasn't helping. She was trying to be  _very serious_.

_Yes, I'm sorry. Anyway, the plan. We don't want to get the stone out right now. What we should do, is try to convince him it isn't working for some reason, do whatever we have to get out of this without him going into one of his homicidal rages. We can come back for it later — this must be what's in that corridor on the third floor, I've been wondering._

Right. So, they actually  _didn't_  want to get it out. It could stay there.

_Well, it's not like we want to have to fight him for it or any— Oh come on!_

Just as the Mum in her head was articulating exactly why they didn't want it right now, the Mum in the mirror was reaching for the stone at her throat, removing it from her choker, and, with a bright wink at Hazel, put it in mirror-Hazel's waiting hand. Hazel felt something in her real fingers, clenched around it reflexively, knew without looking down what she would find there.

 _You've got to be_ _ **fucking**_   _kidding me! It was_ _ **that**_ _easy to fool? I mean, I know intent-detecting spells are a crapshoot, but come_ _ **on**_ _!_

Yeah, okay, that was bloody stupid. So...they were gonna have to fight Voldemort for it?

Mum didn't even answer. Instead, there was a sudden flash of numbness running from head to toe, Hazel forcefully ripped from her own body. Mum spun on her heel and, with the hand that wasn't holding the stone, flung a banishing charm out into the air. Voldemort was quick enough to react, turning his wand down to the floor, somehow anchoring himself, patchy face pulling into an enraged snarl. But Mum kept going, drawing out a few cutting curses, one after the other, glowing a faint blue in the air as they winged out to meet the odd, reddish shield charm Voldemort scrambled to cast.

While Mum cast the cutting curses, Hazel noticed a bit of magic pulled to the hand with the stone, a slippery chord she didn't recognise. A flick of her wrist, a wiggle of her fingers, and the stone disappeared.

As soon as she had it hidden away, however she'd done that, Mum stopped. She stood there, staring at Voldemort, the red in his eyes far more obvious than it'd been a second ago, almost glowing. And she held her hands out, open, probably just to prove they were empty. He glanced down at them, blinked, and, oddly, the rage on his face broke, replaced with an almost contemplative frown. He looked up at Mum, meeting her eyes, still frowning. After a short pause, Quirrell's wand held loosely toward the floor, he muttered, 'You are  _not_  Hazel Potter.'

Mum cocked her head slightly. Magic was still hot in her veins, singing held just an instant from release, but Hazel's voice, speaking with Mum's accent, somehow sounded perfectly casual. 'You are  _not_  Quirinus Quirrell.'

The frown intensified a few notches at that, and Voldemort opened his mouth to speak. He never did get out whatever that was going to be — he was rather busy dealing with the column of blue-white flame rushing for his face.

The duel went almost too fast for Hazel to follow it, which was damn impressive, when she thought about it. Hazel was still young, her ability to properly channel magic still incompletely developed, and her wand was still in her room, Mum wouldn't be able to use her best magic. But still curses were flying from her fingers one after the other, some with a slight hesitation, a glowing rune drawn in the air, but others as easy as anything, power flowing through Hazel's blood in an unbroken melody. As quick as they were, as much as the air crackled with the force of them as they passed, none of them landed, some turned aside with an easy flick of a wand, others blocked with flickering technicolour shields, others simply avoided, continuing to dig furrows in the floor, stone scorched black.

Not that Voldemort was just sitting there taking it — he was returning the flood of curses with equal speed, any instant he wasn't defending filled with curses spat from the tip of his borrowed wand. The few that Hazel recognised, which weren't many, were nonlethal, which she thought was curious, until she caught a thought from Mum. She'd tucked the stone away with a shadow magic trick, bound to her person: only she could get it out, Voldemort  _needed_  her alive. Though he wasn't known to use it much, Voldemort was certainly familiar with the idea of shadow magic, he certainly knew what she'd done and how it worked, he had to be careful.

However, Voldemort clearly had something of a temper problem. With every curse falling on him, with every one of his spells Mum evaded, every time she jumped through blackness to his back with another curse already flying, those fleeting glimpses Hazel got of his face showed clearer and clearer rage. Until, finally, with a growling snarl, his return fire  _wasn't_  so friendly. That was a torture curse, that was an incendiary curse, could tell by the flaming hole it tore into half the wall, that was a rotting curse, that was another torture curse. These Mum couldn't block at all — even at her best, most were simply unblockable, Hazel knew — so she kept dipping into shadows.

Everything went black, then the room was back, standing somewhere completely different, curse, curse, then as he turned black again.

Back again, a few runes drawn in the air, a flash of red-black flame rising, but Voldemort's wand was coming around, and black.

Back again, a noticeable hesitation, Mum's mind focused with a serrated sort of intensity, the magic flowing through her taking a discordant, eerie harmony, and painfully keen emerald light sprang from Hazel's fingertips, spreading as fire and sharp as lightning, but Hazel didn't even make out if the first casting of the Green Death she'd ever personally witnessed landed or not, black consumed everything again.

And Voldemort was screaming something incoherent, and the air around him was twisting orange and vibrant black, and Mum planted a knee on the floor, foreign script springing into existence before the fingers of both hands, more lines appearing than strokes Mum drew, and a wave of angry black lightning was crawling across the floor, Mum touched the tile with glowing fingertips, drew her hands up and around, and blue-green crystal followed, softly shimmering, spreading to encase them in a tight dome. It shook as the lightning struck, the glow of the stuff turning almost purple, a low keening that made Hazel cringe, but it held. Mum was holding her hands out, yellow-orange flames crackling to life, a clench of her fingers and it contorted, tongues of plasma almost seeming to freeze like fire made ice. And the crystal shielding them let out a low peal like a gong, cracks snapping across the surface, again, again—

Mum stepped out of blackness, deadly sharp daggers of frozen fire wreathing her left arm, and she flung half of them toward Voldemort's back, slicing across the air faster than Hazel could follow, and Voldemort was whirling around to face them, but Mum was dipping into shadows again, and she tossed the rest of them above her head, following with a shimmering charm Hazel couldn't read, even as her fingers again danced with lethal fire, and the instant the unforgivable was released she was vanishing again, reappearing with an arm stretched to the fiery shards floating above Voldemort, another charm lengthening them into spears, to drop singing straight for his head.

Okay. Okay, she got it. Hazel had always wondered why Mum said Dumbledore hadn't entirely trusted her, why some people spoke of her with the same awed whisper given to Moody, or the Prewett twins, or Orion Black, or Lestrange. She was  _seriously_  fucking good at this magic thing. Not that she'd thought Mum was lying but, well, actually seeing it was something else. She was  _in Mum's head_  and she couldn't keep up, god damn...

Not that that little trick had worked — Voldemort was also seriously good at this magic thing. The deadly green light was intercepted with something he'd conjured, the spears blown away with a simple banishing, shattering against the ceiling, debris falling to the torn and blackened floor to simmer away. And Voldemort was staring at them, eyes wide enough to see all the way from here they'd gone thickly bloodshot, the sores on his face weeping, a trail of red seeping from the side of his mouth. And his face was pulled in an open grimace of disbelief, of building fury. ' _You,'_  he snarled, the single word filled with hatred so heavy the air shook with it, Hazel's skin crawled.

Mum didn't even twitch. Fire rose at another flick of her wrist, another clench condensing it into glimmering blades, a dozen floating an inch from her wrist. Voice even, casual, with only a hint of breathlessness, she said, 'Me.'

'No. No, that's not possible.  _That's not possible!'_  he screeched, rising high enough Hazel would have winced, the air around him shimmering, a gathering storm setting Hazel's hair to sparking. 'I killed you! I  _watched you die!_  You're dead, you should be  _dead!'_

Mum's lips twitched. 'And I could have sworn I'd killed you. I guess we both have to learn to live with disappointment.'

' _How?!_  How, are you  _here_ , and in the  _child_ , that's  _impossible!'_

'I suppose I'm just more clever than you, Tommy boy.'

Another shout of fury, or maybe that was an incantation she couldn't make out, the shimmering in the air twisted into an inky black mass of  _something_  cast out by his wand, and Mum was moving again, slipping away into shadows. But the second she was back he was already facing her, tendrils of magic red and black coiling around him, snapping out toward Mum, she barely had time to slip away again.

' _Stop it—'_

Mum took one glance at Voldemort — face contorted into blind rage, leaking blood from widening sores, mouth and ear — and let the glimmering magic about her wrist fade away. When another curse made for her, deep purple and menacingly crackling, she rolled out of the way, didn't bother returning fire, just kept smirking.

'— _Evans you—'_

Another curse was coming, a wide band of black and green, so thick with malice Hazel could taste it even isolated from her tongue, and this one Mum slipped into shadows again, moving to stand  _just_  out of the way.

'— _vile bitch just—'_

And Voldemort was casting a slew of killing curses, so close together it was almost a steady stream of green fire, Mum going in and out of shadows so quickly Hazel didn't even have time to figure out where in the room they were before they were moving again.

'— _just_ _ **die**_   _you—'_

Voldemort was casting that wave of black lightning again, and when Mum came out of shadows she was standing on the ceiling, upside down, hair and nightdress falling upward. Hazel caught a startled thought from Mum, and she snapped both hands down, stopping it at her thighs. It probably shouldn't amuse Hazel so much that, even in  _this_  situation, it would abruptly occur to Mum that Hazel, as usual, wasn't wearing pants and she should try to "preserve her modesty" —  _especially_  since her nightdress was already singed and sliced in places from near misses — but she simply couldn't help herself. The priorities Mum had sometimes, honestly.

'— _mudblood cunt—'_

Another curse was shooting up at them, and Mum let go of whatever magic was holding them to the ceiling, falling out of the way, then slipping into shadows again.

'— _why won't—'_

Mum slid down a wall, rolled to the ground under a whip of red and black scouring the rock, a light banishing flinging her fully out of the way, and straight toward another killing curse, disappearing into shadows.

'— _you just—'_

And the air was filled with those red and black tendrils, Mum ducked under one, skipped out of the way of another, stepped into shadows only to appear into another pack of them, dancing out of the way of one, another, another, before she was again forced into shadows, only to duck again.

'— _ **die**_   _just—'_

The flickering tendrils filling the room pulsed, power so thick in the air Mum's breath came out in a fog. And Mum was suddenly worried, Hazel could feel it, she planted her feet, and runes were again springing from her fingers, one and another and another and another, more than Hazel could follow, definitely more than Mum could physically draw in that time, whole sentences of alien script. The tendrils were clumping into columns, thick trunks of thrumming power stitching together floor and ceiling, and then they were expanding outward, glowing a somehow eye-watering black, and Mum finished her runic spell  _just_  in time, the magic catching with a tactile  _snap_ —

Hazel was removed from her own body enough it wasn't  _too_  bad. It was uncomfortable, sure, like the jolt of a static shock, but constant, the even burn of standing too close to a fire. But, by the way her vision suddenly become nothing but white and red blobs, by the sound of her own voice screaming, she was only getting the tiniest fraction of it.

She didn't know how long, a few seconds, Mum keening and gasping the whole time, the world nothing but white, there was a hard  _thrum_  set through her, and another voice was in the air, joining hers in equal agony. And Mum cut off whatever spell she was doing that was hurting her so badly, collapsing to her knees, Hazel could barely feel the thump, letting out a shaking moan as the excruciating pain diminished only slightly. Then they were moving through shadows again, even here her vision spotted with rainbow afterimages, and the world was back, too blurred and saturated for Hazel to make anything out. And Mum was casting another spell, Hazel couldn't tell what.

And then she collapsed, arms wrapped around her stomach, forehead against the top of her knees, and she shivered, and whimpered, clearly in too much pain to do anything else.

It was obvious it hurt rather badly — it was hurting Hazel, too cold and too hot all at once, pins digging into her not-quite-skin, and she could hardly ever feel anything when Mum was in control — but there was no way she had time to sit here like this. Voldemort was  _fucking scary_ , they should really be moving, she couldn't—

 _He's gone, Hazel_. Mum's thoughts even felt worn out, thin and shaken loose, barely able to string themselves together straight.

He was? She hadn't noticed anything, she meant, couldn't see a bloody thing...

_I felt it. That last spell burned him out. I cursed the body just to be sure. Quirrel is dead, Gaunt is gone. It's done._

Oh. Well, good then. Was Mum okay? Did she overchannel really bad or something? Maybe she should get up to—

_Not overchannelling. Well, a bit, I suppose, but this is something else. I fucked up._

Fucked up how?

Letting out a quivering groan, Mum pushed herself back up to sitting. When she opened her eyes, everything was still washed out, could barely see a thing. Mum drew a rune in the air, the strokes slow and shaking. With a jab of power, some unfamiliar spell was activated — not an instantaneous one, the rune stayed floating there, soft and pale. Whatever it was doing, the icy fire in her veins diminished, Mum letting out another, thin moan of relief.  _Like a bloody idiot, I forgot you're a lilin. Acted on instinct, I didn't think..._

Okay. And why was that a bad thing?

_Your magic is naturally attuned to the dark, Hazel. You can't cast powerful light magic like that isolation ward without making yourself ill. This is white magic toxicity._

Oh. She'd never heard of that before.

_I've never had it before. I know the theory, though. It is possible, though rare, for humans to be attuned to light or dark — I've healed black toxicity in other people before, just the same thing in reverse. Though, now that I think about it, there's some research I have to do._

Er. Research?

 _I have to find alternatives to replace the light magic I was going to teach you. Most importantly, the_ patrōnus _, you'll never be able to cast it. I should have thought of it before, completely slipped my mind._

Right, okay, plans for later. Now, though, they should probably be getting out of here before Dumbledore showed up. She'd be surprised if he didn't have something observing the place, he'd know something happened.

_He's out of the country at the moment, so we have some time._

Why was Dumbledore out of the country?

_Something at the ICW, he was called as an expert witness. It was in the paper. I'm sure that's why Gaunt decided to move today._

Oh, okay. So...they should get going to Sev, then? Felt like Mum could still use a Healer.

_Yes, but we're going to Pomfrey instead. Sev is good, don't get me wrong, but he is a self-taught hobbyist, not a professionally-trained Healer. Unfortunately, I have no doubt Pomfrey will figure out you're a lilin within five minutes._

What, really? Hazel had seen Healers before, and they'd never noticed it.

_Because they weren't looking for it. The ways lilin are different from humans, medically, are rather few — in prepubescent children especially, they would have to explicitly test for it, and there's never been any reason to._

But, human children generally didn't get white magic toxicity or whatever.

_Yes, exactly. She'll figure out what it is in seconds, determine with your age and health you'd need to be a dark-attuned nonhuman being of some sort within a minute, and conclude you're a lilin soon after. Fortunately, she's bound by oath and law not to share that, so letting her know might be safe. I say_ _**might** _ _, because it's possible she might feel obligated to inform Dumbledore, who is an exemption to those rules in cases where the health of other students might potentially be at risk, and I have no idea what he'd do with it. But she might keep it to herself. I really don't know._

Why would other kids be at risk just because she's a lilin?

 _Because, Hazel, the hatred and fear so many mages have for lilin isn't as irrational as it might seem. They_ _ **are**_   _potentially dangerous for humans to be around. To put it bluntly, if you don't want to accidentally kill anyone we're going to have to start being_ _ **very**_   _careful when puberty comes around._

... Oh. Okay.

But, anyway, Healer now?

 _I_ _ **think**_   _I can move. Just have to get out of this room, the wards block shadow magic moving in or out._

Oh!  _That_  was why Mum hadn't just poofed away. She'd wondered about that.

Mum didn't really react to that, but Hazel could feel the faint amusement threading her exhaustion. She pushed herself up to sitting again, and opened her eyes. Their vision had cleared, not perfectly, but enough that Hazel could make out her surroundings in  _almost_  perfect detail, just slightly out of focus, the colours only slightly faded.

So she saw, by some absurd coincidence, they'd ended up right in front of the mirror.

The thing was in surprisingly good shape, considering how the room had been torn and blasted apart around it. It had been flung against the wall, one foot in a furrow dug by one curse or another leaving it standing crooked, but the metal of the frame was still pristine, the glass without the slightest crack — those must be some damn impressive enchantments on the thing. Hazel herself looked only somewhat the worse for wear, minor cuts and bruises dotting her arms and legs, probably from debris cast by the damage to the stone all around her, a few scrapes on knees and shoulders, from the less graceful dodging Mum had done. Her hair was even more of a mess than usual, one side darkened and glossy, charred by a near miss, and her nightdress looked a total loss, tattered and blackened and in a few spots stained with tiny patches of blood. Considering the sort of magic that had been thrown around back there, the ruined state of the room, Hazel thought that wasn't bad at all.

Before Mum could gather the strength to push to their feet, Hazel's reflection wavered, the image wiped away, changing. And Mum froze, her mind abruptly blank with shock.

It was obviously Mum, in the mirror, but it didn't look  _exactly_  like her. She had the same red hair, an unnaturally perfect deep shade that put Hazel in mind of the darkest, lowest flame, the same green eyes, an equally unnatural green, so sharp and vibrant they almost seemed to glow. Both those traits, which Hazel had inherited, she had the nagging suspicion were magical, seemed somehow too  _off_  to be perfectly mundane. Back before she'd known magic was a thing she hadn't thought twice about it, it was just the way she was, but now she wondered. Anyway, she had Mum's tall, thin frame, the same soft, rounded face, but not  _quite_ , slightly off. Seeming somehow, just slightly...she wasn't sure of the word. Less like the actual Mum, and more the  _idea of_  Mum, the minor imperfections everyone had smoothed away, looking all too perfect, all too symmetrical to be quite real.

She was seated in an armchair — judging by the gleam of the wood, a rather fine one, but it was completely unornamented, a bare, simple frame. She was dressed equally simply, plain black trousers and a vaguely tunic-looking sort of thing a creamy off-white, the cloth smooth and shimmering enough to suggest those weren't exactly cheap either. Close to her throat was the same choker as before, though now bare of the stone, but that wasn't the only extra bit. Setting above her left ear, wrapping around the back of her head like a weird sort of half-laurel, was some sort of leafy thing, with tiny whitish flowers and reddish berries. It almost looked like holly, it was odd. Clenched about the top of her right shoulder, reaching to the base of her neck, was a silver-looking thing bent in an omega-ish shape, carved with fine details too small for Hazel to make out from here, attached to the ends a length of cloth, sort of a cape, maybe, but only falling over Mum's right shoulder, covering most of her arm, a mix of reds and greens and blues, threaded through with gold stitching, in lines that almost looked like writing of some kind, but if it was Hazel didn't know the script. There was a heavy bracelet around Mum's left wrist that matched the other silvery thing, looked almost identical, if slightly smaller.

Hazel was there too, of course, she wasn't surprised by that, standing behind and just to the side of the chair. Maybe slightly older, looking just as exaggeratedly perfect as Mum, in a pretty blue and purple dress of silk and lace. She noticed she also had a silverish thing, with similar looking designs, but hers was on her head, set into her hair, looking rather like a tiara worn that way, though a comparatively simple one. It wasn't until Hazel noticed her mirror self, the way she was standing, all calm and easy and happy, that she realised the Mum in the chair was holding herself... She wasn't sure how to put it. A luxuriating predator, a warrior at ease, but not quite a warrior, that word was too small. General, perhaps.

A monarch on her throne, perhaps.

Whatever this all was supposed to be, it obviously meant something to Mum it didn't to Hazel. If Mum would snap out of her daze and explain this to her at any second, that would be great.

It took a moment, too set on the image, a fascinated, ravenous sort of focus, but Mum did finally answer.  _This is supposed to be me as the Lady Protector._

The Lady what? The image shifted again, setting a scene Hazel vaguely remembered — she'd been there only once, some formal thing she hadn't been able to avoid. It was the Wizengamot Hall, recognisable by the blindingly white marble it was carved from, specifically the side of the circular chamber reserved for the government. She meant, the High Enchanter, the Minister, the various department directors. The setup of the seats was slightly different though. All the department seats were the same, the directors stationed behind their desks decorated with the emblems of their departments, though Hazel didn't recognise their faces, the honor guard standing along the perimeter in their overdone, Wizengamot purple uniforms. The bottom tier, just at the floor, was entirely different. The seats for the Minister's direct assistants and advisers were still there — though, like the department directors, were different people than Hazel remembered — but the desk for the Minister himself, the High Enchanter's podium, both were gone.

In their places was a stone chair, heavy and carved in swirling shapes lined with silver and gold. In the chair, wearing a more formal version of what she had been a moment ago — trousers and tunic replaced with what Hazel recognised as light dragonhide armour of Hebridean black, the cape-ish thing longer and the colours sharper, the silvery things gleaming brighter and set with precious stones — was Mum, staring out at the mirror, or she guessed technically the Wizengamot, looking both unnaturally beautiful and intimidatingly powerful.

 _Lord Protector usually, of course,_  Mum was thinking, rather distractedly.  _It's the closest thing magical Britain... They were really never one nation, you see, people from different lands, different tribes, speaking different languages and practising entirely different customs. The Wizengamot is really the only thing that ever unified them._

Okay...? Maybe finish answering the question before getting distracted again, please.

_In times of emergency, the old clans would elect a single, you might say, chief-of-chiefs, who would rule the entire alliance for the duration of the crisis, and then step down once it was resolved. The Wizengamot preserved the tradition, calling the office the Lord Protector. The position has been vacant for most of history, hasn't been one for centuries now. Rarely, a Lord Protector would rise to power, and keep power, in a couple prominent cases passing it on to a chosen successor for a few generations._

Wait, was Mum saying—?

_Yes. The Lord Protector is the closest thing magical Britain has to a king. Or, a queen, as it were._

Hazel had seriously never heard of this before.

 _There hasn't been a legitimate one, properly selected by the Wizengamot, since the fifteenth century._  The image shifted again, Mum in the wooden chair again, flanked by an array of Hit Wizards in Wizengamot purple. People came, one after another — Hazel couldn't guess why, she knew virtually nothing about how this would work. Most of them she didn't recognise, she assumed people Mum would get a kick out of being all humble and bowing to her and shite, though that was obviously Dumbledore, that one Narcissa Malfoy.  _People have tried to take it by force, of course, that was what winning would have looked like for Voldemort. The last one to succeed was Cromwell._

Woah, woah, wait up.  _The_  Cromwell? The  _Dark Lady_  Cromwell? The Cromwell who duelled High Enchanter Henry Black to the death  _on the Wizengamot floor?_  The Cromwell whose followers saw to the destruction of dozens of Noble Houses, including  _half_  of the remaining Most Ancient ones? The Cromwell who started a war that, estimates say, reduced the magical population of Britain by  _nearly a third?_   _That_  Cromwell?

_Yes. That Cromwell. You know, I'd never thought of it before. Going for it, I mean. I probably could, I am powerful enough, and with the socioeconomic situation being what it is..._

Mum, come on, focus, they had to be getting to Pomfrey. Remember?

 _Of course, the Noble Houses would_ _ **never**_   _even contemplate the idea. Even if so much as mentioning the office weren't essentially taboo these days, they wouldn't acknowledge a muggleborn Lady Protector. Not after Cromwell, no..._

Mum obviously wasn't listening, so Hazel tried to force herself back to her own body. She'd never actually done it before, so she wasn't entirely sure how. She just, sort of, reached out, trying to feel it, but she wasn't sure what she was reaching with, what it would feel like. She tried to yank at Mum's mind, pull her back, but her mind magic wasn't  _nearly_  good enough to do much of anything, she had no bloody clue what she was doing.

_...way to do it legitimately, that would never happen. No, it'll have to be through revolution, that's the only way. The muggleborns, of course, but there aren't enough of us. The exiles, the poorer Houses, may be possible, I'll have to think about the politics..._

Mum! Mum, come  _on!_  They had to go! Did she  _really_  want Dumbledore to find them here?

 _...probably a little milder on the deregulation of dark magic than I actually want, at least at first. Unpopular position that, especially with the poor, but I might get a few more wealthy supporters if I'm careful. On the quiet, of course. Creature-being law, though, I'll want the faefolk on my side, goblins would be a coup if I can manage it, but maybe not be_ _ **too**_   _loose on werewolves. If I can get an alliance with the Gaelic nationalists..._

Really, Mum, this was stupid. She realised it was a magic mirror and all, and by how hard it'd been to focus on the life-and-death situation going on it probably had some sort of mind magic silliness it was doing, but  _Hazel_  had managed to beat it, and she was  _eleven!_  This was so pathetic! For fuck's sake,  _snap out of it!_

_...issues with a pan-Celtic movement of any kind, but if I promise some sort of home rule, I can probably work around that. Most people don't identify that closely with anything beyond their House anyway, it shouldn't make that much of a difference. That will require a weaker Wizengamot, or whatever I call the replacement, but I'll probably want a weaker Wizengamot anyway. I've always felt executive and judicial power in magical Britain was far too vague. Some significant devolution, local magistrates and courts, I can probably get more people jumping on just pitching that..._

Fuck it. Mum clearly wasn't listening. She was just going to have to wait for Dumbledore to show up and drag them off.

Because it wasn't like him finding her here, in this state, was going to make things horrendously complicated or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [And she wasn't even lying about that part.] —  _It always bothered me, both in canon and various fanfics, that Harry would take his parents' deaths so personally. I mean, if they were killed when he was old enough to remember them, that would be one thing. But since he can't, it seems it_ _ **should**_   _be a more abstract justice thing, less vengeance and more righteous retribution. Which would be fine if it were written that way, that could actually be fascinating, but it's simply not. Harry takes_ _ **everything**_   _about his parents shockingly personally, considering he's never even met them. (See various racist/misogynist comments directed towards Lily, and the bit about James being a raging asshole everyone, both in canon and much of the fandom, glosses over in ways I've always found irrational and unsatisfying. I mean, even "good" characters are allowed to have flaws, don't just dismiss it, come on, people.) But anyway, Hazel's far milder take on it, and Lily's preference she not got involved if at all possible, both seem far more realistic to me. But I'll admit it's possible I'm just failing at anticipating normal person behaviour again._
> 
> [Hazel had no idea who the hell this Green Lady person was] —  _In case anyone's wondering, yes, that is my headcanon Wadjet who briefly appeared in_ The Long Game _. ("The Green Lady" is Lily's brain automatically translating the modern Kemetic epithet into English.) She also exists in this timeline, but is not relevant to the story, so will likely never turn up._
> 
> [I know intent-detecting spells are a crapshoot] —  _Some of you might be annoyed with me making Dumbledore's carefully-crafted defenses that useless, but prior worldbuilding decisions make this inevitable. Simply put, intent-detecting spells_ _ **are**_   _a crapshoot. All it can tell is that Hazel doesn't want Voldemort to have the stone, and that she doesn't want it herself; it_ _ **can't**_   _tell that those feelings are situational and temporary respectively. That sort of thing is too complex for any enchantment to properly decipher._
> 
> Lord/Lady Protector —  _In case anyone was wondering, the concept itself is a more modern extrapolation of something old Celtic tribes actually did, but my decision to use this particular title was directly inspired by the Protectorate. Though, in headcanon history, it actually works backwards, it'd been around as long as the Wizengamot. The title is, conceptually, the same as the various regents in English history using the title: they are "protecting" the realm until legitimate government can be reestablished. In the seventeenth century, a muggleborn by the name of Frances Cromwell successfully overthrew the Wizengamot, replacing it with a semi-democratic Senate she pretty much had in her pocket, over which she ruled as Lady Protector; around the same time, her younger brother, the historical Oliver Cromwell, ascended to the top of the parliamentarian New Model Army during the Second English Civil War, eventually named Lord Protector of the Commonwealth, the title selected as a direct acknowledgement of the republicans' close alliance with Frances's movement. (Yes, there was confusion about that, up to and including misguided accusations of incest, probably should have picked a different title.) The remains of the "legitimate" government of magical Britain, acting in exile, never acknowledged Frances's authority, and eventually rallied and defeated her in 1658; Oliver died soon after, the Commonwealth swiftly collapsing. The chaos of the first half of the seventeenth century was a large part of why Britain supported enacting the Statute of Secrecy. From that time through the modern day, the Wizengamot has never declared war or a state of emergency, because then they would have to select a Lord Protector, the office now too severely tainted by the shadow of the Dark Lady Cromwell._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Anyway, update schedule. I'm strongly considering posting scene by scene, uploaded whenever I finish them. This would mean smaller updates — occasionally a monster like this, but some wouldn't even top 3k — but also more frequent updates. If I'm not distracted by work or things, it's not out of the question I could have three or four updates in a single week. The back-and-forth letters between Hazel and Hogwarts friends coming up here might go up one a day for a little bit, though that often will be rare. I'm going to give it a trial run before committing to it long term, we'll see how this works._
> 
>  
> 
> _That's all I have today. Thanks for tolerating my ridiculous rambling,_  
>  ~Wings


	8. A Plan Expired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore is getting too old for this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes, still exist. Work is stupid, and sleep is hard._
> 
>  
> 
> _Those couple people who have commented that I'm an irrational Dumbledore-bashing crazy person? Right, here you go._

Albus couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this helpless.

She hadn't woken up yet but, of course, that in itself wasn't cause for concern. It had been, oh, about thirty-eight hours since she'd been put under, but it was a controlled rest, a part of her treatment. Poppy had said it was mild contact corruption, nothing to worry about. The first part was a lie — he'd known precisely what afflicted young Hazel the instant he'd laid eyes on her, he had to wonder why Poppy had bothered — though the second was perfectly true. Now that the spells holding her under had been dismissed, Hazel should be waking up at any moment.

He would admit he had been worried, at first. When Fawkes had carried him to the room, when he'd seen stone melted and blackened and shattered into rubble. When he'd seen Hazel, sitting in front of the Mirror, staring at the surface with deadened eyes. The girl, still so small for her age, had been covered in scrapes and bruises, what little remained of her nightclothes darkened by fire and blood, and it'd taken all he had to keep moving. It was his fault, he knew, whatever had happened was ultimately his fault. It as he who had conceived the trap, let leak the bait, it was he who had recognised the wraith overtaking poor Quirinus, it was he who had done nothing.

He'd done  _nothing_. He'd just waited. He didn't know what he'd been— No, he knew what he'd been thinking. And it'd seemed so reasonable at the time, to wait for Tom to expose himself, to find some way to... Oh, but it was foolish! Somehow he hadn't thought, he'd laid his trap in a  _school_. Tom had never harmed children before, not since he'd been one himself, had in fact gone out of his way to avoid it, if at all possible. He'd thought the students would be safe, but he'd obviously miscalculated. Someone could have gotten hurt, Hazel could have died.

She  _should_  have died. She would have, if not for Lily. For whatever Lily had done.

It was an odd contrast. Albus watched her, laid still and peaceful under hospital sheets pristine white. To physical eyes, pale and delicate, face with the rounded softness of childhood, looking all too small in a bed anticipating fully-grown adults, vulnerable and fragile. But, to those who could see the flow of magic beneath, the illusion of weakness was shattered at a glance. Something unusual, yes, certainly powerful, but he still wasn't certain how to read it. It'd been evident that Hallowe'en, he'd assumed spell residue remaining from the cataclysmic struggle between curse and blessing that had smashed the building around her into unrecognisable pieces. He'd thought it would fade. But it'd still been there, that day at the Tonkses' home, and it was there now, even after she was fully cleansed of all aftereffects from whatever had happened two days ago.

If anything, it was stronger, more obvious than it had been ten years ago. Albus was intimately familiar with the feel of the human soul, the texture of magic as it radiated from a person's body, but this was different. There was something...alien. No, that wasn't quite the right word — alien from his own experience, yes, but not alien to Hazel. The unfamiliar whatever it was was not laid atop her, external magic wreathing an innate core, no, whatever it was was  _part_  of her. So deeply integrated it had been thread through every fibre of her being, whatever magic Lily had cast etched into her bones, sleeping in her veins, breathing with her very soul.

And he didn't know what it was. It was dark magic, yes, he could feel that. Her magic was hard and slick and  _cold_  against his, so cold, the feel of a child's magic so frigid anathema,  _wrong_  in a way that had goose pimples rising on his arms, the back of his neck tingling. It was clearly dark magic, no doubt about that, but not...

In the privacy of his own head, Albus could admit that not all magic that was  _dark_  was by nature  _malevolent_. It might be  _inclined to_  malevolence, but that wasn't quite the same thing. And there was no doubt that this magic, whatever Lily had done, was having some effect on Hazel's psyche. From all he'd been able to gather, observing from a distance, she was aloof, and proud. Disinclined toward compassion, disinclined toward forgiveness. Inclined toward isolation, inclined toward violence. Her execution of the troll — there could be no other word for it, he'd seen the remains — the one-sided brawl in the Slytherin common room, there was no doubt she could be violent.

But not actively malevolent, no. From what he'd seen, for all her arrogance and all her pitilessness, for whatever that voice she'd once spoken of might be whispering into her thoughts, she only seemed to strike when her hand was forced. She didn't lash out against threats to her pride, only her life. (Though, that incident in Slytherin was sort of a grey area, it was undeniable she hadn't been the first to resort to force.) A couple days ago, another example, certainly. On the one hand, it was reassuring. He'd been concerned, absently, a thought toward the background he hadn't even been entirely conscious of, but she was not another Tom Riddle. For all that she could have been, easily, she was not.

But, on the other hand, she was not what he'd expected either. What he'd anticipated. What he'd been depending on. He'd expected her circumstances, for the challenges she'd so far faced, to send her walking a certain path. The needed path. Her father's path. Instead, it seemed, much as had her mother before her, she was jumping the wrong way, moving the opposite direction he would expect.

Watching the magic settled about her, the shadow the arcane spell that had saved her life had laid upon her soul, he suspected he knew who he had to blame.

It was an odd mixture. His frustration, bitterness directed against someone long dead, a girl too foolish, too selfish to see the ultimate consequences of her actions. His helplessness, a terror too young to be named, that it was all coming apart. Slowly, so slowly he could hardly yet see the edges beginning to fray, but he knew. He knew he was watching the beginning of the end, and he had absolutely no idea what he could possibly do about it.

The girl wasn't moving according to plan. And he knew, he knew, attempting to force her into her role would only send things flying further out of balance. And he didn't know what to do.

He was shaken out of thoughts when — the slightest twitch of a finger, a slight gasp of breath, a quickening of magic and mind against his — the girl awoke. Slowly, as though from the deepest of dreams. Physically, at least. The movements were sluggish, uncoordinated, as she shifted in bed, but it was only an instant before, eyes not on substance but on essence, icy power turned sharp, tense, waiting. Some part of her — that unnamed voice, perhaps — had noticed he was here, sitting only an arm away, and was already waiting for a threat to counter.

Reaching for Hazel's thoughts, that one time years ago, had clearly been a mistake. If he'd any inkling of the profound complexity of the protection young Lily had left her daughter with, he never would have risked it.

The moment her eyes opened, uncanny green hazed and unfocused with sleepiness, he murmured, 'Good afternoon, Hazel.'

'Ugh, afternoon.' With what looked like a not-insignificant degree of effort, Hazel pushed herself up to sitting against the headboard. She glanced to the table on her opposite side — Albus was certain he saw her eyes land on her wand, hesitating for just an instant, but it was instead for the waiting glass of water she reached. She took a few long sips, blinking in confusion at the vase of flowers on the table, the blooms neat and pristine, yellow and red and white arranged with perfect radial symmetry. Then she nodded, with a glance at him and a sideways nod at the flowers, 'Hermione?'

'Yes, I believe Miss Granger picked them herself, in fact.' She would have had to — sending flowers to someone in hospital was a muggle custom, mages would consider it in rather poor taste. Informed as he was, it had struck even Albus as somewhat odd, when he'd noticed them, but he'd chosen to simply be pleased the muggleborn girl was close enough with Hazel to bother putting in the effort. There were worse people Hazel could have chosen to befriend. Hiding his unease, he said, 'The rest are gifts from your other friends, of course.'

Hazel picked over the collection with her eyes, not moving to handle them. Though it would be a bit impolite with him sitting here. Greengrass had left her a letter, underneath an enchanted glass carrying case displaying an inset inkwell and a long red and white quill, and Davis had left a second letter, along with Hazel's own wand, moved from where she must have left it in their shared room. These more befit magical custom: in cases of a short convalescence such as Hazel's would be, friends and associates typically sent gifts suggesting the recipient would soon be back at whatever it was they did. The letters likely contained invitations to meet over the summer, and a student certainly did need a good supply of quality quills and ink — the red and white of House Potter was a more subtle touch, not unexpected of a girl raised in a Noble House.

While he wasn't exactly pleased with Hazel's choice of company, Greengrass and Davis specifically weren't  _too_  bad. Far from ideal, but so far as Slytherins went, she could do little better. It was the last that made him particularly uncomfortable. There was a plate, enchanted with warming and preserving charms, atop it arrayed discs of soft, unleavened bread, a little pot of honey, a jar of preserves, traditionally made from berries of some variety, whatever was available. An ancient tradition, it was said, preserved by the lilin and their veela cousins over thousands of years, dating from a more primitive time, when a community would together provide for an ill or injured member until they were back on their feet. Albus found Hazel's closeness with the Zabini boy more than a little concerning, and he didn't appreciate the blatant reminder.

Although, even that wasn't as concerning as the unanticipated dearth of any other tokens at all. He'd expected a panoply of sweets and such — the usual gift from people wishing one in Hazel's position well, but not close enough to warrant the more personal expectations of a friend — but there were none. It certainly hadn't been missed that she was here, he'd made sure of that, but there were  _none_. The only conclusion he could reach was that Hazel was widely disliked by the student body at large.

It was not a reassuring thought.

'How long was I out, anyway?'

Albus shook himself from his wandering thoughts, turned a warm smile on the girl. 'Oh, not long. Madame Pomfrey put you in a special sort of healing trance, it only took a little over a day.'

'So, it's Sunday, then.' Hazel didn't react to his confirmation, staring at him with her eyes slightly narrowed. After a short silence, 'I don't know where the Stone is.'

He blinked. 'I'm sorry?'

'Flamel's thing? That you put in the mirror?' Hazel gave an easy shrug, for all seeming completely unconcerned; since he couldn't risk even the lightest touch on her thoughts, he couldn't be certain if it were an act or not, but he was leaning toward not. Judging the sincerity of Slytherins was always a gamble, but she seemed genuine enough. 'I mean, I assume that's why you're here, waiting for me to wake up. I don't know where it is.'

And, since she did seem genuine enough,  _that_  blow hit home all the harder. 'I realise I have given you little evidence in our brief acquaintanceship to suggest otherwise, Miss Potter, but, I assure you, I am not  _always_  going to be coming to you with ulterior motives in mind. The Stone is a periphery concern, yes, but you have gone through a horrifying ordeal, and assuring myself of your well-being is my primary concern for today.'

Hazel, to his surprise, let out an amused snort. 'A periphery concern. The Gem of the Making of Truth. Mm-hmm.'

The translation of the original Egyptian name for the Stone put a grin on his face. 'You did do the thing properly, then. I hadn't been certain, very subtle work you did there.' He'd had occasion to wonder, since finding Hazel before the mirror, how exactly she had come to be there. There had been no evidence of a student making it past the cerberus, and Rubeus, who was by design the weakest link in their little conspiracy — though, dealing with the dragon was a bit more trouble than Albus had been expecting — had assured him no student had even brought up the topic of the beast with him. In fact, Rubeus had admitted Hazel had never once spoken to him the whole year. He'd thought it unlikely Hazel was involving herself, but it was  _possible_  she'd learned things from some other source, it was  _possible_  the Cloak had shielded her from detection, she might have gotten far further then—

'The hell are you talking about?'

Albus was startled out of his thoughts by the mild profanity, Hazel's sharp, dumbfounded voice carrying a larger-than-usual hint of the distinctly muggleish accent Andromeda had managed to partially bury. 'There's no reason to deny it, Hazel, I'm not angry. I understand the allure of a good mystery. And, I was young once, I know vague warnings of certain death from bearded old men are unlikely to be taken at face value.'

Hazel stared at him again, thoughts moving behind her eyes, nothing but a thoughtful sort of intensity about her face, nothing he could glean much from. 'So, that was that forbidden corridor, then. On the third floor.'

He blinked. 'I'm sorry?'

The girl rolled her eyes. 'I didn't know for certain, you see.' She glanced away and, with a flick of her fingers and a tingle of shadowed magic on the air, cast what felt like a simple levitation charm. The plate from Zabini lifted itself off the side table, drifted over to settle in her lap. Unscrewing the jar of preserves with a little twirl of her finger, and ignoring Albus's frown at the frivolous use of magic, she said, 'Apparently, Voldemort snatched me from my bed, while I was sleeping. I only saw the room with the mirror. From what he said, I'd guessed where we were, but I wasn't sure until just now.' As though she hadn't just said anything out of the ordinary, she picked up one of the discs of bread, ripped it in half, and sniffed at the exposed innards.

Well. Apparently, she  _hadn't_  done the thing properly. Or at all, even. Trying to ignore the terrifying thought of Tom abducting Hazel in her sleep — he would be discussing the security of the Slytherin dorms with Severus at the earliest opportunity — he asked, 'So, you never looked into what might be hidden there.'

It was mild, the girl far less expressive than he would expect of a child, but he was certain  _that_  was incredulity. 'Here I was under the impression I should avoid places promising  _a most horrible death_. Besides, back on Hallowe'en, Sev told me to keep my nose out of it.'

Albus frowned, and only partially from the unexpected familiarity. 'And you listened.' The girl just shrugged, nonchalantly dipped a bit of bread into the jar. Which, well, Albus had thought it was perfectly reasonable for him to be a bit surprised.

From what he could tell, Hazel wasn't entirely familiar with the concept of obedience. All who had taught her had noted she was, yes, remarkably talented, but routinely disrespectful to the point of insubordinate. There had been countless incidents, minor things — what she was doing right this second, deciding to eat while he was trying to have a serious conversation here, wouldn't be out of place on the list — but the most severe was likely her adamant refusal to do a significant portion of the practical work in Herbology. Pomona had tried to enforce her cooperation with everything from gentle cajoling to point losses to detentions, but Hazel just blankly stared at her when lectured, smiled and joked at point losses, and simply blew off detentions. Eventually, Pomona had just given up.

Well, now that he thought about it, that wasn't the most severe issue. Albus wasn't certain if she'd ever attended a single session of History or Defence. But Quirinus had only mentioned that in passing a couple times in September, and Cuthbert had long ceased attending staff meetings, so it was Pomona's frustration with her he'd heard the most about. Any other student would have been severely punished by now, but Severus was shielding her, hadn't given an inch to his colleagues' complaints. At this point, the only real avenue they had was expulsion, that was the only action they could get through her head of house couldn't sabotage, and Albus wasn't likely to do  _that_ , now, was he?

'Well, that aside...' The girl's lips twitched, some ineffectively hidden smirk, but Albus ignored it. 'I don't suppose you would be willing to tell me what exactly happened down there. I found the ruin that had been made of the room, of course, and it was full to the brim with magical residue, but as to the details...' Not all of those dark magics could have been cast by Tom alone, after all.

Having just gotten the first bite into her mouth, Hazel froze mid-chew. Her face fell into a narrow frown, shallow but thoughtful, some calculation moving behind her eyes. Then she started moving again, it was another few seconds before she swallowed. 'No.' She dipped the other half of her first piece of bread in the jar, popped it into her mouth.

It took some effort to keep his annoyance from his face. It didn't help that the girl wasn't even looking at him, focused on selecting another disc of bread. 'Miss Potter, I'm afraid I really must insist.'

'Mister Dumbledore, I'm afraid I really must refuse.' Ripping another piece of bread in half, the girl's eyes flicked up to him. 'If I do that, you're gonna make this conversation about me, and what I did. Really, I think this conversation should be about you, and what you did.'

A chill slid down his spine, looking into eyes far too green, far too bright, the wording too similar to what another girl had said, in this very room, sixteen years ago. She hadn't been the one in the bed, no, but she'd been called here, another girl on the other side of the curtain, they'd demanded an apology, he and Minerva, they'd said Miss Evans would apologise for hospitalising another girl. Not unprovoked, no, but Miss Evans had walked away without a scratch, and Miss Yaxley had been carried up here, unconscious.

And Lily had glared at them, eyes far too green, far too bright, she'd told them  _no_ , that she would not apologise, no, in fact, she demanded Yaxley and her friends be punished, for jinxing those seconds years, Albus couldn't remember their names. They were making this about her, she'd said, what Lily had done to Yaxley, not about Yaxley, and what she had done to deserve it, and Lily wouldn't stand for it. She wouldn't pretend to be sorry for what she'd been made to do, no...

Albus shook off the unsettling comparison as well as he could, focused on Hazel. And was not entirely surprised to find her not even looking at him again. 'If I have done something to offend you—'

'You mean, other than assaulting me a few years ago?' He couldn't hold back a wince, but Hazel still wasn't watching, preparing another bit of bread. 'Oh, I don't know. This whole fiasco with the Stone comes to mind.' She glanced up at him, one eyebrow ticking up, face taking a derisive, sardonic little glare. She'd obviously been spending time around Severus, she'd copied the look. 'Passing over for the moment keeping something the Dark Lord wants so badly  _in a school_ , I mean, that spell on the mirror?  _Really?_  I wouldn't call something Voldemort could get around simply by taking some random uninvolved kid a work of genius. Bang-up job on that one.'

Another wince crossed his face, this time entirely unopposed. There was no reason to argue the point — the girl was right to criticise his blindness. He'd designed the protections on his bait to  _seem_  possible to break, while actually being virtually impregnable. Intent-detecting spells laid over a mind-influencing enchantment like that on the mirror had seemed the best solution. Tom could have sat in front of that thing for  _years_ , and he'd never crack it. It hadn't occurred to Albus that, in his weakened state, Tom would be able to resist the influence of the mirror long enough to puzzle out how it functioned. It certainly hadn't that Tom might use a  _child_  to dodge the issue entirely.

That had always been the source of his greatest blunders maneuvering against Tom: he failed, every time, to anticipate the depths to which he was willing to sink. To predict another's movements, one must first understand them, and Albus had long feared the horror at the very core of Tom's being would forever be beyond him. Young Severus had been a boon so far as that particular weakness was concerned, his insights crucial in the last months of the war. And he'd had misgivings about the plan, had directly questioned the wisdom of allowing Tom into the castle at all. And Albus, assuming Severus was simply overcautious with Hazel here, had dismissed his doubts.

He wouldn't be making  _that_  mistake again, no...

It took him a moment to decide how to possibly respond. 'I have made mistakes, Hazel, I do not deny I have made mistakes. To err is human, which powerful men too often forget, and have only themselves to blame when their mistakes grow all the worse. I didn't mean for you, for  _anyone_  to come to harm. I'm trying my best, to do what is necessary to stop Voldemort from returning, but I am not perfect. If I have...' Albus fumbled for words for a second, Hazel staring back at him, distant and unmoved. '...so severely injured your trust in me, I want you to tell me what I can do to begin to heal it.'

Hazel's lips twitched. ''Tis well said again.'

He blinked. 'I'm sorry?'

'And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well: And yet words are no deeds.'

As she reached for another bit of bread, covering it in preserves before eating it, Albus could only stare at her, too dumbfounded to speak. Did an eleven-year-old girl just quote Shakespeare at him?

Eventually, she swallowed, then said, 'Thing is, there's nothing to heal. I never trusted you to begin with. Other kids, I hear them talk, and they've been told all these things about you since they can remember. Some great things, some not-so-great things. The ones who got mostly great things, they have some trust to start with. I never did. I'd never even heard of you, before you showed up, trying to force me back to an abusive home, magically violating my mind because I dared, for  _the first time in my life_ , to tell the truth about it. The great things people say about you are a bit hard to believe after that. And, well, this year at Hogwarts hasn't exactly changed my mind.' She turned away again, started preparing another piece of bread. 'If you want me to trust you, Headmaster, you have to give me a reason to. Because, so far, I can't think of one.' And she popped the bread into her mouth with a queer sense of finality, as though symbolically closing the topic.

For long moments, Albus just watched her, eating her way through Zabini's gift, so casually ignoring his presence. He would admit that irked a little, that an eleven-year-old would treat him with disregard no Lord of the Wizengamot would dare, but it was more than that. He couldn't lose Hazel Potter, their one hope promised by prophecy, he  _couldn't_. He realised the question might do more harm than good, but he had to know, he couldn't walk out without asking it. 'I'm curious: is this you speaking, Hazel, or the voice?'

Hazel snorted, shaking her head. 'If it got what it wanted, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. It told me to refuse to talk to you without Andi or Ted around. Just so you know, I've been trying to convince it to give you a chance for years. Ever since I learned a bit about you. It was a little hard to make the argument, 'cause I can't say I like you at all, but, you know, strategic concerns, and all that.' She took another bite of bread, paused a moment to chew. 'But, well, if I learned anything this year, it was right. You don't approve of me, you don't approve of  _anyone like_  me, and I don't approve of you, and that's never going to change. I bet it'll only get worse, as we figure each other out better. I don't feel like wasting the energy it would take to fake it. Do you?' she said, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Albus hesitated. He took in the girl, sitting there, staring with eyes too bright, almost glowing the exact shade of Death. Face hard, unmoving and unmoved, sitting relaxed against the headboard, meeting his gaze with an aggressive sort of confidence, seeming so easy and natural, no child her age should be able to face him like this, it was a little eerie. The magic flowing through her, frigid and shadowed, spines of black ice rising just beneath her skin, tensed like a nervous cat, an instant from striking. Everything he'd learned, been able to infer, about her priorities, her relationships, her opinions. Her personality, both that he'd observed and from what he'd been told.

The feel of the magic, in the room he'd laid his trap. Residue left from what could only have been two powerful users of the Dark Arts doing their level best to murder each other. Hazel couldn't have done it herself, he was nearly certain, but that "voice" she'd talked about. If it could move to protect her mind, perhaps it could do more, and  _that_  was a terrifying thought, only worsened by the obvious conclusion that, in refusing to tell him exactly what had happened down there, she was  _protecting_  it...

'No.' His folded fingers twitching, clenching in his lap, he let out a short sigh. 'No, I don't think there's anything to be gained in pretending.'

Hazel nodded and said, her speech slightly muffled by the bit of bread in her mouth, 'There ya go.'

'I'm sorry it has to be this way, Hazel. I really am.'

She turned to give him another one of those flat-look-single-eyebrow-raised expressions that kept reminding him so strongly of Severus, it was starting to get a bit unnerving. 'I don't see how there has to  _be_  anything — can't be a bad relationship if we avoid having one altogether. Nothing isn't really being, when it comes down to it.'

'I'm afraid that's not possible.' She gave him another queer look, so Albus straightened in his chair slightly, let a note of severity into his voice. 'Voldemort will be back, Hazel. You know this. It could be years, it could be decades, or it could be months. One day he will return.'

'True. And if he goes back to trying to burn the country down, I intend to gather up my family and friends and leave.'

The words struck Albus like a punch to the stomach, leaving him breathless, staring at Hazel for some seconds, mouth hung uselessly open. And she just sat there, looking entirely unconcerned, casually polishing off a couple more bits of bread. Finally, he croaked past the cold stone that had sprung to existence in his throat, 'You can't be serious.'

She cocked an eyebrow at him again. 'No, I'm pretty I  _can_  be serious. Granted, I don't do it nearly as often as Sev would like, but...'

'You—' He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He found himself shifting in his chair, his horror too much for him to sit still, he couldn't completely process the thought. 'You would just  _abandon_ —'

Hazel slammed the now-emptied tray onto her side table, the high crack and the rattling of the jars startling him to silence. Glaring back at him, she hissed, 'Abandon a country in a civil war, where one side would love to see me, specifically, dead more than most anyone else, and the other will expect me to pull miracles out of bloody nowhere to save their stupid arses? Fuck yes, I would. They can all go to hell.'

He'd thought he was seeing the beginning of the end, but he was wrong. No, the damage was far worse than he'd thought. He wasn't sure if he could save it, he didn't know what to do, the admission a vise tightening about his heart. 'Hazel, you have to listen to me. Only  _you_  have survived Lord Voldemort, only  _you_  where countless others had fallen. It may well be you are the only one who will ever be able to stop him.'

The glare only sharpened, her magic turning so cold, ephemeral knives slipping into the air, he almost recoiled. 'Oh, now you're just lying. We both know the truth.  _I_  didn't defeat the Dark Lord.  _My mother_  did.'

'It may have been her sacrifice that allowed you to—'

'Her  _intentional_  sacrifice. I barely know anything about high ritual, but even I know something like this doesn't happen on accident. She may have died in the process, but my mother defeated Voldemort, not me. I just sat there.'

Albus felt like cursing. She wasn't supposed to know that. It was the truth, of course, but it would be  _so much easier_  if— No, it didn't matter, what was done was done. He took in a long breath through his nose, scrambling to find some way to recover. 'Regardless of what actually happened that night, people believe what they believe. There is power in that, but also weakness. People  _believe_  you defeated Voldemort, and when he returns they  _will_  believe you will do it again, that only you  _can_  do it again.'

'And whose fault is that?'

Albus jumped at the question, the last bit of the ground he stood on crumbling away below him. He saw where she was going, he knew what was happening, but he couldn't stop it, it was too late, it was  _too late_ —

'I do know how to read, you know. I looked up back issues. The D.L.E. didn't get to the house in time, whatever energy would have been there had dispersed too much for anyone to get anything. The  _only_  source for the story people know — the bit about the Green Death not working, rebounding on Voldemort, blah blah — is  _you_. You are on the record, several times, telling people that is what happened. The  _only_  source. I can't imagine why you did it, but we both know it's a lie, and we both know  _you_  made it up.

'Let me be very blunt with you, Headmaster,' the girl said, leaning forward in her hospital bed, eyes far too hard and cold for a child her age. 'This whole thing, the Girl-Who-Lived and the Dark Lord, is  _your_  mess. I will not be made responsible for cleaning up your messes. If you can't off him without me, I'm not sure he shouldn't win.'

And Albus stared back at the girl — this foolish, selfish, arrogant girl — and couldn't think of a damn thing to say. He hadn't realised how much damage had already been done.

Despite their personal disagreements, the Tonkses  _were_  good people, public servants, even. They were both well known, in certain circles, for providing their respective services to the less fortunate free of charge — Andromeda often found on her days off distributing potions on the street, aiding the destitute and the unwanted and the criminal all the same, Edward volunteering legal assistance to any who caught his eye, on one memorable occasion walking in on a trial before the entire Wizengamot without any prior warning, even the accused had been blindsided. They weren't supporters of his politically, no, but he'd thought, given their own feelings on charity and justice, if not defined exactly in alignment with his own, it would be a wash.

But the damage was already done, he saw that now. Perhaps whatever positive influence the Tonkses might have had had even been too late, perhaps their animosity for him personally was simply too strong, he didn't know. But he'd missed his window, he'd unknowingly waited too long to start establishing a relationship with the girl. Unobserved, she'd drifted to the Dark too far. And given her feelings about him personally, which she was making absolutely no effort to hide, if anyone was going to bring her back to the Light, it wouldn't be him, it  _couldn't_  be him. He was too late.

If he'd ever even had a chance at all. That whatever it was, that "voice" whispering in her head, that fell influence turning her magic cold, whatever hold it might have on her soul. No, it had all been ruined, before it had even began, and he hadn't noticed, he'd been too blind to see. He'd thought, it had simply been residue from whatever Lily had done to entrap Voldemort, the curse he had thrown, it had been temporary. He'd thought, if he could just isolate the girl, keep her from any corrupting influences, keep her innocent, and humble — which had backfired anyway, those vile Dursleys, he didn't understand how anyone could possibly treat a  _child_  like that, he didn't—

Perhaps it had been too late even then. This same shadow had already fallen over Hazel's very being. He had misread the signs, misinterpreted the magic Lily had wrought, in her final moments of righteous desperation. And that was the word for Lily, wasn't it, righteous? So blinded by her personal conviction, her surety in her own perception of the world and people in it, basic humanity overwhelmed by the power at her fingertips...

He still didn't know what she'd done, that night. He didn't know what this "voice" was, he didn't understand how it'd changed Hazel already, didn't know what surprises might yet be to come. And, when it came down to it, it probably didn't even matter. It was too late, the damage was already done. It had, perhaps, been done that very night, seemingly so long ago. Lily, that selfish, arrogant girl, might have ruined everything. Unknowingly, to be sure, blinded in the heat of the moment as to the ultimate consequences of whatever she had done, but that did not change the results. She very well might have doomed their nation to burn at Voldemort's heel, in exchange for her daughter's life, a single life.

And he didn't know what to do.

'Headmaster?' Albus blinked, turned to the gap in the curtains surrounding Hazel's bed. The face of the girl standing there was unfamiliar, but the texture of her magic was not. Nymphadora, an almost suspicious cast to her borrowed features, said, 'What are you doing here?'

'He was just leaving.' He turned back to Hazel to find her giving him an almost challenging look, as though daring him to disagree, daring him to continue their conversation with witnesses present.

But there would be no point to that. He saw, now, that he was too late, there was nothing to be gained here. 'Yes,' he muttered, hearing the absence in his own tone. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the familiar twinging of old curses never entirely banished. He opened his mouth to say, he didn't know exactly, something about being heartened by Hazel's recovery. But he felt the dishonesty coming, before he'd even started getting the words out. A Girl-Who-Lived who refused to work with him in his struggle against Voldemort was worse than no Girl-Who-Lived at all.

Not that he wished the girl harm, certainly not! But the realisation hit him too suddenly, too strongly, just as he was about to speak. The realisation that, should Hazel prove to be stalwart in her convictions — and there was yet no evidence she wouldn't be, no reasonable hope she would change her mind — Hazel could only be a hindrance as she was, would be most useful to him as a martyr. He despised himself, was disgusted that the thought had even occurred to him, but there it was. He didn't know exactly what emotion would be on his voice, the thought too new and distracting for him to entirely suppress his reaction, but he knew Hazel and Nymphadora were both too perceptive not to notice  _something_ , he couldn't anticipate how they would react, what they would assume of his intentions.

So, he simply left.

Oh, he  _didn't know what to do!_  This was an unqualified disaster. He'd only had the loosest of plans, yes, it was hard to plot around Voldemort's attempts to return to power when he didn't know exactly what those attempts would be. But Hazel had been at the centre of all of them, he'd  _needed_  her cooperation, the prophecy  _depended_  on her cooperation, but it was all ruined. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know...

It  _might_  be possible to force her compliance. She had friends, family she clearly cared about, genuinely. For all that darkness had consumed her very being, she was not that far gone. Even contemplating doing such a thing, though, ate at him, his stomach roiling with incipient disgust. He'd been forced to do such things before, true, in the most desperate of circumstances, but he never liked doing it. This sort of coercion, these sorts of threats, no matter how effective they may be, they were only a temporary solution, bonds of fraternity replaced with chains to be thrown off. They inevitably did more harm than good.

Not to mention, he always ended up hating himself a little.

No, no, trying to force her would never, ever work. And not only because it would inflame her animosity toward him, though that was certainly a reason not to all on its own. No, there was a bigger problem: Severus.

For all that he might imply otherwise to Severus himself, he knew  _exactly_  what their relationship was. He held no illusions about Severus's opinions when it came to Albus himself, or his beliefs. Severus may have some personal issues with Tom, with his methods, but there was no doubt he was Dark, through and through. He had never changed, in their years of working together he had never changed, and he likely never would. Severus had first offered his services for one reason, and one reason only: to help protect Lily. Severus continued working with him for one reason, and one reason only: to help protect Lily's daughter.

Albus knew, the  _second_  he made himself Hazel's enemy, even if only on the surface, Severus would be gone. And his best eyes and ears in segments of society he was not welcome, his greatest insight into the motivations and methods of the most dangerous of men, his most critical agent in the war to come, all would be forever lost.

Hazel clearly wouldn't be open to a friendly alliance, not without some extraordinary circumstance, and trying to coerce her cooperation would be a massive strategic error. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know what he  _could_  do.

Albus couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this helpless.

He was so lost in his thoughts — circular and pointless — that he was hardly aware of making it all the way to his office. He was so lost in his thoughts — fretting everything and deciding nothing — that he made it halfway across the room before he noticed he wasn't the only person in it. 'Alastor? When did you get here?'

'About an hour ago.' He was sitting in his usual chair before the fire, his ratty old coat over a table — Albus noticed one of his thaumometers lying broken on the floor, likely knocked off when Alastor had negligently thrown his coat over the top. (He wasn't annoyed, it could be fixed with a simple repairing charm, or even surprised, when it came down to it.) He already had a glass of brandy in hand, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing old scars littering his arms, Albus's eyes, as always, drawn to a blackened gash he knew ran nearly from left elbow to his neck, memories flicking by unbidden. Alastor's natural eye was on him, slightly narrowed, the other jumping around the room, constantly scanning the magic of their surroundings, unceasingly vigilant for possible threats, even here. 'You might want to take a second look at the wards on your office. It only took me thirty seconds to figure out how to neutralise your notification string.'

Normally, Albus would have held back his sigh, but he simply didn't have the energy at the moment. 'I am not in the mood for your games right now.' After a second of hesitation, Albus changed direction, heading for the other armchair before the fire. 'Just tell me why you're here.' As he sank into his seat, he couldn't help a sharp glance at Fawkes, laid out over the back of Alastor's chair, still with sleep. He could tell, just by the hint of tension on Alastor's voice, that they were about to have a disagreement. Fawkes taking Alastor's side never boded well for him.

'Right, then.' Alastor set his drink aside, hard enough ice clinked noisily against glass, brandy sloshed onto the table. He leaned forward in his chair, arms braced against his knees, both eyes turning to stare at Albus, steady and unyielding. 'You are going to stop being an arrogant little shite and tell me what the fuck is going on.'

Albus felt the hard glare coming over his own face, didn't even bother trying to moderate it. 'I don't think I'm in the mood for this either.'

'Too bad.' Albus had barely taken in a breath to speak before he cut over him, his voice slightly raised. 'Normally, I put up with it. You always have a million bloody things on your mind, and you have this ridiculous sense of egocentric obligation, that you have to solve the world's problems all by yourself. I got used to that a long time ago, sometimes I don't even mind it. But, you know, other times, it  _really_  does get old.

'Amelia has been leaning on me pretty hard, you know. Oh,  _don't_  give me that  _look!'_  he said, the glare sharpening a bit further. 'You can't just announce one of your professors was killed and  _Hazel bloody Potter_  was hospitalised, in  _the same incident_ , without people asking questions about it! We've been getting owls by the hundreds, Education is quietly "suggesting" the Board get an inquiry going, Fudge can't go five minutes without demanding Amelia open an official investigation. She wants to help you make this go away — whatever disagreements you two might have, the Minister annoys her a whole hell of a lot more — but you have to meet her halfway. So, tell me. What. The  _fuck_. Is happening?'

Another sigh escaping him, Albus turned to stare blankly into the fire. So, once again, the vultures were circling. That hadn't taken long at all. 'So, what are they going for now? I'd be shocked if they didn't try to leverage me out of the High Enchanter seat, but are they working in Headmaster of Hogwarts too?'

' _For the love of—'_  Alastor cut off, a glance showing his head in his hands, covering his face, deeply breathing in a clear attempt to calm himself. 'Albus, would you just... _stop?_  I'm being serious here.'

'Oh, I'm sure they are too.'

' _Forget_  about those cunts! Just—' He took a single sharp breath, hands running through his thin, patchy hair. 'Look, Albus, you know me. You've known me a very long time. Do you think there is  _any_  amount of pressure Amelia Bones could put on me that would get me to talk to you about this if I didn't already want to for my own reasons?'

Albus had absolutely nothing to say to that, just kept staring into the fire. Because, well, he might have overreacted. He didn't think he'd ever met anyone in his entire life who was even a fraction as stubborn as Alastor Moody. He suspected the only reason Alastor was still alive was because he simply refused to die — some of those curses he'd taken, honestly, the man was a walking miracle.

'So, forget about them. Forget Amelia, forget the Wizengamot, forget the Board.' Letting out another sigh, Alastor leaned back into his chair, his breath tensing slightly as one of his many old injuries was pulled at. Albus couldn't help a quick glance at the hint of pain, so he noticed Fawkes had woken up at some point, head still resting on the edge of the chair's back, dark eyes filled with reflected flames gently blinking back at him. 'This is just me, just me asking.

'Something is going on. Something big. Something you've kept to yourself. It's been going on for a while, but now it's more immediate. And it has something to do with Quirrel and the girl, whatever happened with them. By the look of you walking in here, this something is going badly wrong.' Alastor's eyes cracked open again, meeting his gaze with a crooked, sad sort of half-smile. 'No matter the ridiculous shite some of your minions say, you're not a god, Albus. You can't shoulder the world all by yourself. Just, let me help you. Because this thing, where I'm just sitting here, and watching you fret yourself into a wreck of nerves and paranoia? Yeah, it's not working for me. Tell me: what is happening?'

Part of Albus really didn't want to. For one thing, it was a risk: the more people who knew anything, the greater the risk the knowledge would spread. Given that this was Alastor, though, there was little worry of that. He was infamously discreet — Albus couldn't count the number of times he'd gotten in hot water with the Ministry for covering up for other DLE officials, or refusing to name this or that less than reputable informant or contact. Nobody was about to take any information from him by force — he was probably more skilled with occlumency than even Albus, and he could probably count the number of people in the entire world who could capture him alive on his fingers. Simply for fear of the knowledge getting into the wrong hands, there was no rational cause to keep it from Alastor.

He supposed it was simply reflex. He'd gotten so used to keeping certain things to himself it'd become automatic. Excluding perhaps two or three Unspeakables, who were magically barred from speaking of it in any case, Albus was quite literally the only living person in the world who knew the full text of the prophecy. He'd just...

For another, well... As he himself had hinted at a moment ago, Alastor was singularly stubborn. And, for all the closeness of their relationship, he and Albus disagreed on a great many things. Opening up to Alastor would also be opening his methods up for critique. Which, if he was being honest with himself, wasn't even necessarily a bad thing. It was very possible the constant second-guessing he was certain Alastor would subject him to might well get more than a bit irritating, but Alastor had knowledge and experience he did not. Not to mention his own skills and resources they could exploit. It was impossible to know ahead of time, but letting Alastor in might actually be an advantage in the long run.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he was a little...

Fawkes let out a low, warbling coo, the air noticeably warming, his chest lightening, the clouds in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed were there until that very moment chased away.

Albus was just so very  _tired_. He'd been tired a long time, though he tried not to show it, avoided admitting it even to himself. Alastor hadn't been wrong, a few years ago, when he'd suggested Albus was working himself too hard, that he should perhaps scale back on his responsibilities. It had been immediate, after he'd been removed from the office of the Supreme Consul. He'd been sleeping easier, he'd been eating better. Proper focus was easier to attain, he could think clearer — an alchemical theorem he'd been working on for two decades he'd resolved just a few months later. Magic even came easier, complex spells coming more smoothly, more powerful in their effects.

It was better, it was easier, but he was still tired. He was tired of dealing with the back-and-forth egoistic nonsense that was the Wizengamot, day after day. He was tired of the bureaucratic tedium that made up most of his duties as Headmaster. And, he was tired,  _so tired_ , of...

Well, as Alastor had put it, shouldering all the world on his own. He'd only spoken of Voldemort's continued existence with Severus. It'd all been their little conspiracy, working to prevent his return, planning for their potential failure. And, for all that Severus was useful, he wasn't exactly the most... Albus wasn't sure what he was trying to say. He wasn't...

He wasn't Alastor, he supposed, was what he was getting at. He wasn't Alastor.

'You're not going to like it,' he said, a warning on his tone, as though hoping Alastor would change his mind. But his resolve had already been obliterated, he could already feel the burden on his shoulders lighten by half.

And Alastor smirked at him, that lopsided, cynical smirk he'd grown to love since dark magic had stolen his face. 'Really, now, Albus. How often do I ever like the shite that comes out of your mouth?'

Despite himself, Albus couldn't help a breathless chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Did an eleven-year-old girl just quote Shakespeare at him?] —  _Yes, she did. Henry VIII. And yes, I am an enormous nerd. If your mum is living in your head, you can be damn sure you'd get your homework done._
> 
> [The  _only_  source for the story people know — the bit about the Green Death not working, rebounding on Voldemort, blah blah — is  _you_.] —  _Am I the only one bothered by the question of exactly_ _ **how**_   _Dumbledore knew what happened? There's never a satisfactory explanation for how the Boy-Who-Lived story got started in canon. The only one I've seen in fanon that makes even a little bit of sense to me is that Dumbledore made the whole thing up to start building up a base of support for Harry in the inevitable second war. Which does raise serious questions about Dumbledore's character but, well, have you_ _ **read**_  Half-Blood Prince _? God damn..._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _In case anyone was wondering, Dumbledore and Moody being an adorably antagonistic old gay couple didn't stop being a thing. They just entertain me, I really can't explain why._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yeah, this chapter got delayed significantly. Work is terrible, sleep is hard. It also didn't help that I ended up deleting half of it at one point. I had Hazel partially cooperating with Dumbledore the first time through, but then I'm like, no, this is ridiculous and totally out of character for both of them, stop it. It also also didn't help that this scene went, like, twice as long as I originally expected. Seriously, it's ridiculous. This was the **second**  scene of a  **four** -scene chapter I originally had planned. What the fuck, past-me? Honestly..._
> 
>  
> 
> _If I'm incredibly lucky, I might be able to have the next scene by tomorrow. But, I start work again the day after that, so who knows when I'll have it if I'm not super-productive tomorrow._
> 
>  
> 
> _Thanks for reading,_  
>  ~Wings


	9. Defeat in Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Lily doesn't take disappointment very well.

'What the hell was Dumbledore talking to you about, anyway?'

Hazel shrugged. 'You know, basic headmastery things. Doesn't matter.' She didn't really feel like getting into it with Dora right now. Or, anyone, for that matter. She was still too annoyed, and Mum yelling at him had given her far too much of a headache.

_Sorry about that. He just, he really makes me angry._

No, really? She hadn't noticed. 'Are you here to bust me out? I've only been awake for a half hour and I'm sick of this place already.'

One of those smirks crossed Dora's face, her eyes dancing — it was amazing how Dora could rearrange her features to become completely unfamiliar, and still be recognisable just by the way she smirked. She slipped over toward the head of the bed, jumped into the air to land next to Hazel. Partially on top of her actually, Hazel had to lever her arm out from under her. 'Actually, I was sent in head of Mum and Dad to check if you were awake or not. They should be here any minute.' Dora turned to lean against Hazel, her head settling on Hazel's shoulder. A bit of her hair ended up on Hazel's face, a quick puff of air making sure it wouldn't end up in her mouth. 'So what the hell happened down there, anyway? Everyone's talking about it, but nobody knows anything.'

Hazel did consider telling her. For all of about two seconds. 'Nothing.'

'Oh, sure, Quirrell died and you're in hospital, and it was nothing.'

'It was, though. I mean, did you see how ill he was?'

Dora turned her head, enough to meet Hazel's eyes at an odd, crooked angle. 'You know, you might want to work on your lying. I'm not gonna make a big thing about it, I'm just saying.'

There was really nothing Hazel could think to say to that. Just pouting at her seemed the thing to do.

Hazel had noticed before that magic can do some rather odd things all by itself. In powerful mages, it's like the air around them is always subtly sharper, a hint of something on the air, something thick and electric. Rather like standing outside in the moments before a thunderstorm hits. The more powerful a person's personality was — the more vigorous, the more vibrant — the more intense the feeling was, enough the air around them shifted with their moods.

Dumbledore, for example, just a moment ago. On a normal day, in the Great Hall at mealtimes, she could feel him all the way from her spot half down the Slytherin table. Warm and still and calm, like the gentle touch of the sun on a spring day. She'd known, when they'd been talking earlier, that Dumbledore was, she didn't know, upset somehow? Confused, maybe? The warmth had been gone, the power radiating from him feeling somehow...unsteady, fluctuating, stuttering. Something about what he'd found in the mirror room, she guessed, something had him unsettled. That was why she'd decided to tell him nothing, seemed like too big a risk, with him feeling like that.

Of course, it wasn't just Dumbledore who did it. Severus did the same thing — in his calmer moods cool and brisk and indifferent as a quick-flowing stream, when angry more a raging fire compressed into too tight a space, waiting to explode. Flitwick seemed to have a low buzz following him everywhere he went, as though so inundated with insatiable energy he was constantly vibrating. On a few occasions, when McGonagall had been annoyed with her, Hazel had been certain the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. But Voldemort had been weirdly flat, actually, he probably had some way to block it, or maybe possessing someone messed with however this happened, she didn't know.

Point was, she could feel Andi and Ted coming before they got past the curtain. Well, probably just Andi, if she was being honest. Not to say Ted was an especially weak wizard or anything, he wasn't, but, well, it wasn't just anyone who could become a Healer specialising in dark magic reversal. Not to mention Andi was a bit intense even when she was in a good mood. And it was intensity, or anxiety, that she was feeling, a wave of approaching magic sweeping across her skin like insects pinching, actually kind of gross. And it was definitely there and not just her imagination, she felt Dora against her straighten slightly. So she was not at all taken by surprise when the curtains around her bed were roughly thrown open, Andi stepping into the enclosed space, Ted following at her heels.

The immediate interrogation, though, was unexpected.

_Really, Hazel. You can't end up in hospital the same day a professor dies and expect them to not be worried._

Er. Why not? She was perfectly fine. She was pretty sure they would have been told if she weren't.

_You can't expect anyone to be entirely rational when the safety of their children is involved._

Well, yes, Mum herself had done a spectacular job of proving that over the years. But, that wasn't really the same thing, though. Hazel wasn't even theirs.

_So? I was adopted, and do you think that made any difference to my parents? There's a point past which whether a child is biologically yours or not ceases to matter._

Oh. Was that why Mum had said that, that bit about being okay with Hazel calling them that if she wanted to?

_Partially. And, you know, there's no use trying to deny how you feel about them yourself. The mirror did make it quite clear, and I am inside your head._

Heh heh. Yeah. Not gonna do it, though. Still seemed kinda weird.

_That's fine, you don't have to. I just thought I'd let you know it doesn't bother me._

But it  _did_  bother her.

_I mean, you know what I mean._

Sure. Anyway, Hazel should probably think of something to say to get Andi to drop it. She didn't seem to be buying the  _nothing happened_  routine.

_Of course she isn't. You didn't really think she would?_

'I sort of had to kill Professor Quirrell, but I'm pretty sure he was a paedophile, so it's okay.' She'd said it without really thinking that hard, but it'd at least partially solved the problem: Andi was no longer firing questions at her and prodding at how thin and terrible her answers were. Of course, nobody was saying anything at all anymore, all three of the Tonkses just blankly staring at her. It probably didn't help that she'd just spat it out, even interrupting Ted in mid-sentence.

_Oh, sure, that's gonna make this all go away a lot quicker._

What, should she have told them about the whole Voldemort thing? That would have gone over well.

_And this was the best thing you could come up with?_

Was there something better she could have said?

_I don't know! You're supposed to be the bloody Slytherin!_

A shite one, apparently.

Ted was the first one to speak. From where he was sitting at the foot of her bed, face still blanked with shock, he muttered, 'Well, yes, that's perfectly okay then, isn't it.'

Andi shot him a quick exasperated glance before turning back to Hazel. Leaning a bit further forward in her chair, her voice suddenly lower, softer, she said, 'What happened, Hazel?'

She shrugged. 'I dunno, really. I went to bed, er, Friday night, and I woke up in a room I didn't recognise, held floating in the air with some kind of spell.' Hazel blinked at the odd feeling on the air, rather like the sinking feeling when you missed a step going down the stairs — though, she wasn't entirely sure how something outside of her could feel like that, magic was weird — coming not just from Andi, but also from Dora. By the looks on everyone's faces, they were all kinda freaking out a little just from that.

_Hazel, you are so ridiculous sometimes. This story you're making up is completely horrifying. Of course they're freaking out a little._

Oh, well. Would Voldemort have been a better explanation?

_Just finish the damn thing._

Right, then. 'I didn't have my wand on me, but, you know.' Andi and Ted  _did_  know about the wandless magic now — it'd been all over the school after Hallowe'en, would have been impossible to keep it from them. She'd actually been scolded a bit for hiding it, Andi hadn't been entirely pleased. 'I broke the whatever it was, and then he was trying to bind me again, so then we were fighting. I didn't mean to actually kill him? I think he kind of, just, fell apart, or something. He was really not well, you know.'

'Yeah,' Dora muttered, giving Hazel an odd, wide-eyed look, 'everyone's been talking about how he's dying or something.'

The sense of falling surrounding her was starting to weaken, but Andi was still a bit more intense than usual. Her voice oddly thin, stilted, she said, 'Did he get you with anything, in the fight?'

It took Hazel a second to figure it out. 'Oh, no. I just, I pushed myself a little too hard. Wandless magic, you know.' The greatest advantage of a wand, aside from the library of formalised spells that could be easily copied, was the far greater efficiency in guiding energy to do what you wanted they enabled. Casting the same spell without a wand took significantly more power than with one. Up to a point, anyway, the more familiar she was with a spell the more efficiently she could cast it, so the difference was negligible with her best ones, especially since her wand wasn't a perfect match, but in principle. 'I'm fine now, though.'

'And he was going to, er...' Andi trailed off, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Really, it was quite strange, eyes trailing away from Hazel, seeming suddenly unable to sit still in her chair. Odd.

Hazel shrugged. 'Well, I didn't wait long enough to find out, did I? But, why else would he be snatching a kid from their bed and dragging them off to an isolated part of the castle alone?'

With a little shudder Hazel probably wouldn't have noticed if she weren't sitting right against her, Dora said, 'I vote we not talk about what Quirrell may or may not have been intending to do to Hazel anymore.'

An odd sense of anticipation about him, Ted nodded. 'Other than a little conversation we'll be having with some nice people at the D.L.E., of course.'

'No, we're not reporting it.' Ted near jumped at the sharpness in Andi's voice, and she went on before he could respond at all. 'It looks like Dumbledore is trying to bury the whole thing, including how he died. It is to her benefit no one knows Hazel killed him, regardless of the circumstances. Besides, there might have been others — it's better they not know.'

Wait, really?

 _Yes, really. If this story of yours were actually true, and nobody had come forward, it's almost certain memory charms would have been used. It doesn't take very long for the suppressed memory to dissipate entirely, and trauma can't set in without any triggering experience to anchor to. However, if they knew about it, it could prevent the memory from fading. Even if they never fully recover the memory, so can't consciously remember it happening, simply_ _ **knowing**_   _it happened will preserve the subconscious trauma long after it should have gone, allowing potentially severe emotional issues to develop. The phenomenon has been repeatedly observed in muggles exposed to magic and then obliviated, Andi isn't wrong._

But...shouldn't they know? She meant, there was no "they" to know anything, but, theoretically, if there were, wouldn't it be better to know?

_Would you rather remember a horrible thing that happened to you but has no further consequences of any kind, and be miserable because of it, or be entirely unaware it ever happened, and be happy?_

That... Well, she didn't know, honestly. On principle, she'd think she'd prefer to know things, but she'd probably think differently if she were busy being actively miserable because knowing things.

_Exactly. It is complicated, but Healers tend to default to leaving it be. They all take an oath to do no harm, and most consider informing an obliviated victim of the trauma they've forgotten to be doing unnecessary psychological harm._

Hmm. Alright, then. Much better story than she'd thought it would be, if they weren't even going to look into it for that reason.

_Yes, Hazel, good job stumbling into an effective lie by complete accident._

Thanks.

Anyway, Ted seemed less than pleased about that idea, sending Hazel an apologetic wince before turning to Andi again. 'And we're supposed to do, what, nothing? Quirrell is gone, yes, but do you  _really_  trust Dumbledore to a hire a suitable replacement? I mean, how long has it been since this school has had a legitimately competent professor for Defence? Quirrell wasn't the first one to do something like this either.'

Hazel blinked. She hadn't known that, but Dora muttered something about third year, so she'd just take Ted's word for it. But anyway, 'I think I've proven I can take care of myself just fine. Don't really need Defence, do I?' Of course, it  _was_  her mother who had done the fighting, Hazel doubted she would have lasted even a second against Voldemort on her own. But, also of course, she wasn't likely to end up fighting someone like Voldemort again any time soon, so...

'I know you can, kid.' Ted said it easily enough, but there was a distinct sense of... Well, Hazel didn't know how to describe his tone exactly, but she was certain he was at least partially humouring her. 'But it's not really about just you. You're not the only person in this school, and  _Dumbledore_  has neatly proven  _he_  can't be trusted to take proper precautions.'

Oh. Well, hard to argue with that. The paedophile thing may be a convenient lie, but he had let Voldemort wander around the school for half the year unopposed — Hazel couldn't imagine Dumbledore hadn't noticed Quirrell was being possessed by  _somebody_ , did seem a little odd to do nothing about it, even if he hadn't known who it was. And in their conversation a moment ago, he'd implied he  _had_  known who it was the whole time. He certainly hadn't seemed surprised. Rather troubling, that.

Anyway, then Ted and Andi were arguing. They did that a lot. Back and forth about whether they should be telling anyone what had happened, whether and how they should try to sway the Board into more closely looking at Dumbledore's hiring decisions, blah blah blah. Hazel didn't find it particularly interesting. It was all stupid political shite. It might be pretty strange for a Slytherin — or a Lady of the Wizengamot, for that matter — but she really didn't have the patience for all this scheming and talking and networking. Seemed like a lot of effort for not much return to her. Probably didn't help that she was already getting a bit tired again, for some reason. Something to do with how the healing trance thing worked, maybe? She wasn't exactly an expert in these things. It also didn't help that she didn't give a shite about this particular issue. It wasn't like she was even coming back to Hogwarts next year, what did it matter?

_Then maybe you should tell them that._

Did it matter? It wasn't really about her, when it came down to it. Ted had even admitted it.

_True, but it not affecting you will make it a much less pressing issue for them. Besides, you really should tell them anyway. Preferably before an acceptance letter comes in the mail._

Right. Good point. Hazel waited a moment for the proper time to interject, each breath filled with the scent of whatever it was in whatever Dora washed her hair with. Something fruity, the fuck knows. Eventually, there was a short pause, Andi having just explained why Ted's plot to get a majority of the board to expel Dumbledore wouldn't work, and she jumped in. 'Well, this is interesting and all, but I don't really care. I'm not even going back to Hogwarts next year.'

Surprise flit across both their faces, turning to quick give each other baffled looks. Even Dora twitched, turning against Hazel's shoulder to aim a frown at her. After a pause, Andi said, 'Were you having that hard of a time here?'

Hazel shrugged, trying not to feel too guilty. Too guilty, because she hadn't been entirely honest in her letters home. It just... Well, she hadn't wanted to talk about it. Still didn't, really, but she probably couldn't just say she wanted to leave  _because_  and be taken seriously. 'The classes are boring, way too easy for me. I get that's not going to be much better anywhere else, but still. I don't get along with hardly anyone — I can count the people I actually talk to on the fingers of one hand. Everyone else seems to be convinced I'm an evil dark witch who's going to kill them all in their sleep someday, it's very irritating. I really don't like it here. If there's any way to avoid it, I don't wanna come back next year.'

At the evil-dark-witch bit, Dora winced. 'Ah, yeah, I've heard about that. She's not wrong, people  _really_  don't like her for some reason.' Dora winced again, glancing up at Hazel with a rather sheepish look. 'Er, sorry.'

She just shrugged — it was true.

_In all fairness, you don't try to get people to like you very hard._

Or at all, actually. It just seemed like a waste of effort. If she has to lie and pretend to get people to like her, then she has to lie and pretend forever. Eventually, she'll get to a point with at least some of them that she likes them enough to not want to lie and pretend anymore, but if they turn out to not like the real her, then that'll turn into a mess. Seems better to just be upfront about it.

_I get that, I'm just saying. It might save you many headaches in the long run if you were just a little more conscientious in how you treat other people._

But then she wouldn't get to watch purebloods squirm with discomfort whenever she did something especially rude, they could be so funny.

_So you don't bother with propriety for your own entertainment? I thought it was just because it was too much effort for too little reward._

Hazel could have more than one reason for doing something.

Anyway, Ted, like Dora, was looking at her all sad, even faintly guilty. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered. 'I had no idea.'

She shrugged. 'It's fine. Can't know if I don't tell you.' That wasn't anything even like a given, in a family of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, but whatever.

Somewhat to her relief, Andi seemed to have already dropped the subject, moving on to more practical concerns. She really had to appreciate that sort of mindset, sometimes. A slight frown creasing her brow, fingers tapping on her lap, she said, 'Did you have any thoughts as to where you'd go instead? Caoimhe's Academy in Ireland isn't bad. Dora almost went there, in fact.'

'Ah, no, I don't think that would be any better.' She got a set of baffled looks at that, and before anyone could ask why, she said, 'I'm a lilin, see. I won't be able to hide it forever.'

She probably shouldn't find her family's speechless shock amusing.

In retrospect, she probably should have been worried about telling them that. Lilin didn't exactly have the best reputation in magical Britain — there was a reason there were only two in the entire country, that she knew of. Well, actually, she  _shouldn't_  have been worried, because she  _should_  have known the Tonkses specifically weren't likely to care about that sort of thing — Andi had been raised in a House  _very_  politically Dark, Ted had managed to hold onto his muggle-taught ideals about rights and liberty and all that, and Dora was...well, Dora. But, she understood a normal person  _would_ have had concerns about it, worried how they would react.

But, after a short stunned silence, then a few questions mostly beginning with  _how_ , they'd all quickly come to the conclusion that, yeah, Beauxbatons was probably best, then. They did have a  _far_  better record when it came to nonhuman stuff than Hogwarts did, or nearly any other school of magic in existence, for that matter. There were a few in Asia that had a longer clean history, but really, there wasn't any difference in the modern day, and she didn't think it practical to be going that far.

And nothing else about her being a lilin now, that was it. Apparently, they  _really_  didn't give a damn. It'd probably be coming up again later, when she wasn't all in hospital and pathetic, but they dropped it for now. Mum was a bit surprised how easily they were taking it, actually, but Hazel just shrugged it off.

By the time it was all settled, Hazel was starting to get pretty sleepy again. And it was getting late anyway, so, after some more platitudes that still felt pretty pointless to Hazel and hugs all around, the Tonkses started on the way out. As they slipped out the door, Hazel barely caught Andi and Ted muttering to each other — apparently, they were already planning how to handle the public reaction to the inevitable news spreading about the Girl-Who-Lived having been a lilin the whole time. Good fucking luck with that, Hazel knew by now that was going to be a shitshow of absurd proportions.

The instant they were gone, that familiar wave of numbness swept over Hazel, and Mum was in control. She cast a wandless spell Hazel didn't recognise, waited a second, then jumped to her feet. She stumbled a moment, falling back to sit on the bed, the room around them tilting dizzyingly — apparently, you can't just get right back up after having been in a healing thing for a day and a half. Their surroundings stopped swirling after a few seconds, but Mum didn't bother trying to stand up again. She reached for Hazel's wand, shot off several more spells. Two she recognised as privacy spells she'd been taught, but the rest were unfamiliar. No idea what she was doing that required that sort of precaution, but okay...

 _Just thought I'd check something quick._  A flick of her wrist, a flutter of power, and a gleaming red gemstone was cradled in her palm.

Oh, yeah. The philosopher's stone. Almost forgot about that. What was she checking?

 _One second_. Mum was doing more magic, but Hazel couldn't say they were spells, exactly. She was just sort of poking at it with ethereal fingers, feeling out the shape of the thing, how it reacted to her touch both physical and magical. Some trick Hazel wasn't sensitive enough to entirely pick up, she guessed. She was at it for no more than five seconds before she straightened, a sudden flood of black rage crawling through her.  _No._

Er. No?

There was a sharp stab of a wandless spell, and the stone crumbled into glittering dust in her hand.  _Son of a fucking_ _ **bitch**_ _!_

Hazel would have jumped, at the destruction of the stone and the forceful cursing both, but she didn't really have a body to jump with at the moment. Undistracted by her own surprise as being a disembodied consciousness could make a person, she figured it out after a second. Ah. Fake?

 _Yes, it's a fake! Of_ _ **course**_   _it would be a fake! Even Dumbledore isn't stupid enough to—_  Mum flopped onto her back, fists coming against her forehead. She let out a long snarl of frustration, heels kicking against the side of the bed, each impact cooling the inferno that had nearly overtaken her thoughts by tiny degrees.  _This whole thing was_ _ **pointless**_ _. We didn't have to fight the bloody Dark Lord at all. We could have just given the damn thing to him, it wouldn't have mattered._

True. But they hadn't known that at the time. And it wasn't like it'd turned out that badly, what had they lost?

It took a moment for Mum to answer, lying there breathing hard and heavy, fists clenched against her forehead, desperately trying to remain calm.  _I don't know, it just worsened the situation with Dumbledore. Pretty sure that's going to come back and bite us in the arse. You probably shouldn't have been quite that confrontational with him._

Hey, Hazel hadn't been the one imagining setting his beard on fire. And, really, had Mum had any better ideas on how to handle him?

_No, I'm still not sure whether that was salvageable, even if you played him as well as possible. He was too suspicious from the beginning. Self-righteous old bastard. I'm just saying, it's going to come back around eventually._

Oh, Hazel was pretty sure Dumbledore never liking her was a given. She wouldn't be hiding what she was at Beauxbatons, and there was no way Dumbledore wasn't finding out about that. He didn't like lilin, did he?

_...Fuck. Good point. Yeah, that's not going to make things any better._

Today was just a font of good news, wasn't it.

_I am going to set something on fire._

Hey, she'd put up privacy spells. Go nuts.

It wouldn't be until a couple years later that Hazel would fully grasp the significance of the flames Mum had wandlessly cast, eating away at more of the hangings and furniture around them than was entirely wise, coming out black and cold as night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [he had let Voldemort wander around the school for half the year unopposed...did seem a little odd to do nothing about it, even if he hadn't known who it was. And...he'd implied he  _had_  known who it was the whole time.] —  _I know I've hammered on this point a few times the last couple chapters, but it's been over a decade and I still can't get over it. The fuck, Dumbledore?_
> 
> [Caoimhe's Academy in Ireland] —  _Ollscoil Choiteann Caoimhe Ní Bhláithín, a headcanon school of magic in a headcanon magical town in Ireland, the most highly-regarded British school people from Common Houses are actually allowed to go to. (Hogwarts, with a few notable exceptions, just accepts nobility, plus muggleborns without immediate magical relatives.) Named for a famous semi-legendary Irish witch from about a millennium ago, the first name pronounced roughly "_ _ **key**_ _-vuh"._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _And here is what was originally supposed to be part three of four of that chapter insane past!me planned. Really, so ridiculous. A bit slower to get out than I suggested, I know, but I've been stupid tired pretty much constantly, writing has been impossible. And very short, by my standards, but this scene was always going to be short. A little shorter than I expected, but I skipped over a few unimportant things, and tied it off quickly at the end. Partially just because I'm stupid tired, and partially just to get this damn first year out of the way already, fuck..._
> 
>  
> 
> _Oh, in case anyone's wondering, whether Dumbledore was aware the stone was fake or whether Flamel pulled one on him was meant to be kept open to interpretation. Go with whichever you like._
> 
>  
> 
> _Next scene will be at Beauxbatons. With how sleepy I've been lately, I really can't say when I'll have it done. Especially since it should be quite long. You'll get it when I finish it._
> 
>  
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	10. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, Severus can't just curse people who annoy him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, I'm back. With a short chapter, and not at all the one I'd planned._
> 
>  
> 
> _See notes at end._

Idly paging through the latest issue of the _International Journal of Clinical Psychopharmacology_ , Severus waited until the very last moment he reasonably could. And then, skimming an article describing an experimental treatment for chronic thaumatramatic mania, he stalled a few extra moments.

It wouldn't do to appear reasonable, after all.

When he'd waited long enough he would be just shy of indecently tardy, Severus set the journal aside — face-down, to save his page — and started on the long walk from his personal apartments in the dungeons to the staff room on the sixth fucking floor. Staff meetings were tedious enough. Forcing the majority of them who  _didn't_  live up in those bloody towers to walk twenty minutes just to get there was another sting of insult. Honestly, there was a staff room on the second floor, disused for centuries now, which would be reasonably equidistant from where they all spent the majority of their days, but  _no_...

He would say Dumbledore just liked having people come to him, but he knew for a fact his predecessor had held staff meetings in the same room. Though, his predecessor had also been Phineas Black, who would likely have done it for much the same reason. Irrelevant.

The trip was long and boring enough, he just let his mind wander. Master Minze was taking an odd risk, recommending a tincture containing no small amount of moonstone for all cases of chronic mania. True, it would be helpful in some cases, or simply neutral in others — it would depend on the mania's exact pathogenesis. But, in cases caused by white magic trauma or toxicity, any contact at all with moonstone would only make it worse, and possibly induce secondary hypervalent shock. Granted, such reactions would be rare — black curse damage is far more common than white — but they were potentially  _lethal_. Severus had thought Minze more cautious than that.

He'd have to be rather more politic in his review than he might ordinarily be. Minze was one of the more highly-respected authorities in the field of psychoactive potions, it wouldn't do to be too overly... He wasn't sure of the word. Academics could be ridiculously sensitive at times, and Minze had done plenty of brilliant work — not to mention had admirers and former students by the thousands. Severus could afford to leave some bridges unburned.

He spent the rest of the walk up, stairs after stairs after stairs, trying to remember how exactly one was supposed to draw attention to another's grievous error  _without_  in any way insulting their intelligence.

The long table in the staff room was all but full by the time he arrived — at a glance, he saw the only one missing was Trelawney, and he didn't expect her to pull herself from the bottle long enough to deign to show up. Honestly, how the hell did that ludicrous woman still have a job? He'd have thought rampant alcoholism would be cause for dismissal at a  _school for children_ , but clearly Dumbledore thought differently.

He hadn't fired Severus yet either. His criteria were clearly flawed.

It wasn't until after he'd registered all but two chairs were full that Severus realised that eye-searing spot of yellow and mauve somewhere in the middle had to be the new Professor of Defence. When he recognised the man a second later, — he'd taken to not inquiring beforehand, to spare himself a few weeks of fury — he jolted to a halt in the middle of the floor.

'Ah, Severus!' Dumbledore was in as fine a fettle as always, eyes twinkling and beard curling with a half-hidden grin. The old berk always seemed to enjoy staff meetings far too much, like he wanted nothing more than to spend hours and hours and interminable hours in banal conversation with people who wished anything but to be there stuck with him, it made Severus's teeth ache. 'Have a seat, would you, and we can get started.'

It did take Severus a second to get moving, and it wasn't Dumbledore's invitation that did it — he noticed Septima was staring at him, again. She was always bloody doing that, for years now, it was vaguely unnerving. The woman's face was uncharacteristically unreadable in these moments, and he'd tried legilimency to divine what was going on in there, but she apparently had dozens of arithmantic formulas and proofs simultaneously going on in the back of her head all but constantly. Gave him a fucking headache. He took the seat on the same side of the table she was on, so he wouldn't have to tolerate her constant  _staring_.

Which, unfortunately, put him right between Minerva and  _Gilderoy fucking Lockhart_. Because of course it did.

'Get started?' Lockhart leaned forward over the table a little, the motion bringing him closer to Severus. Severus leaned away on instinct — Myrddin, was that  _lavender?_  'I'm hardly an arithmancer—' The sugary tone he said it in, his teasing smirk, was making Severus queasy. '—but by my count we're still short one.'

'Ah, well.' That was almost a rueful smile on Dumbledore's face, as though he were almost embarrassed at still having the lush on staff.  _Almost_. 'I'm afraid Sybil — that's our Divinations Professor, Sybil Trelawney — attends these meetings but rarely. It may be some time before you meet her, she keeps to herself.'

Minerva muttered something that sounded very much like  _batty old fraud_. Hopefully low enough Dumbledore wouldn't catch it — the scolding did get quite tiresome — Severus whispered, 'The only thing she'll be Seeing tonight is the bottom of a bottle.' She hung her cup of tea over her mouth far longer than needed to sip, probably covering a smirk.

She might be an intrusive, aggravating old shrew, but he couldn't say Minerva's sense of humour was lacking.

In the end, this August staff meeting was the same stupid shite as every previous. The same old notices on the state of the grounds and the castle, dull. The same old introduction to new staff, invariably including Defence, dull. The same old listing off of known at-risk students to keep an eye on, tedious. Various professors bringing up their own concerns and comments, agonising. On and on and on, for hours.

If the elves didn't accommodate him by having throat-burningly strong coffee within reach nearly every second of every bloody day, he might have passed about by now from sheer, soul-crushing boredom. He fucking hated these things. Maybe not this time, actually — imagining setting Lockhart's overdone hair on fire was a nice distraction, at least.

Although, the more he payed attention, the less he was sure what to think of this one. He hadn't read any of Lockhart's books, but he'd had the great misfortune to be in the same room with him once before — he'd later requested the proprietor owl him their schedule of book signings and similar events so he could avoid them in future — so he'd already had some familiarity with the man. Or at least how he acted in public. And there was some of that here, certainly, all impractically prettied up with his ridiculous pink-purple robes and too-curly blond hair and he  _had_  to be wearing makeup, and the  _lavender_ —

And all smiles, and sugary compliments, and melodramatic statements, and boyish chuckles, it was  _sickening_. It was all there, the absurd fop Severus had thought him to be. But at the same time...

He didn't know. For one thing, when he'd introduced himself, he'd gone on a short monologue about the curriculum he had planned out. And, shockingly, it wasn't even bad. It was yet to be seen if he could give a proper lecture without getting distracted by some inane tangent involving some other celebrity he'd met or one of his plethora of heroic deeds or  _bloody hair care_ , but the brief glance had given every indication he might even know what he was talking about. And for all he looked like a silly charlatan, Severus noticed over the course of the meeting he was wearing wrist holsters — on  _both_  wrists. If those overindulgent tales of heroics  _were_  fictional, as he'd assumed, Severus wouldn't expect Lockhart to project an ounce of true competence, or be cautious enough to carry a backup wand.

Not to mention, Severus noticed the man's mind was shielded with occlumency solid as steel. No, he was getting the sneaking suspicion Lockhart might be more than he seemed.

That might just be wishful thinking, though. Severus was more comfortable believing people like what Gilderoy Lockhart superficially seemed to be didn't exist.

And then something especially annoying just had to happen. He could pretend to be surprised, but he wasn't, really. Ever since Hazel bloody Potter had entered his life, this was just his luck.

They were nearing the end of the scheduled topics, he'd be able to get the fuck out of there, when Minerva just had to mention the one thing he'd dearly wished she wouldn't. 'By the way, Severus, I noticed you didn't submit a class list for Miss Potter.' The disappointed tone on her voice —  _You really must pay attention, I expected better of you, young man_  — was both highly obvious and highly unwelcome. 'I sent out her letter anyway, but if she hadn't been a second year...'

Severus took a long sip of coffee, preparing himself. This was going to be...unpleasant. 'That was unnecessary. I did not give you her class list because Miss Potter will not be attending.' He'd already known Minerva had sent one to her, of course, had received a letter a couple days ago implying, with all the subtlety of a blasting curse to the face, he lacked the intelligence to properly manage her transfer — he hadn't been sure if Lily or Hazel had written it, as it wasn't signed and their handwriting was similar, but didn't think it wise to ask.

He couldn't pretend to be surprised at the asinine tangent that followed. The thoughtless imbeciles that seemed to comprise the majority of the British population were so fanatically obsessed with their  _Girl-Who-Lived_ , he'd expected nothing else. No matter how many questions they asked him, no matter how many times they repeated the same ones worded only slightly differently, Severus gave them the same answers. After conferring with her family, Miss Potter would be attending Beauxbatons for the remainder of her schooling. She had cause to leave, of course, she hadn't done it on a whim, but their conversations on the matter, like all such with his Slytherins, were privileged, he refused to share any details. He would say no more on the subject.

There was really no point in asking  _again_ , he wasn't changing his mind. It was done.

He kept up the facade of cold intransigence, covering any hint of wariness. Everyone else had put together an impressive chorus of  _bleating_ , but Dumbledore hadn't said a bloody word. Not one. He was just...staring at him. That smile gone, eyes now still and sharp, all too still in general, as though the man had been petrified. He was still physically, at least — the magic in the room shuttered in fitful starts, and while Severus could never see into Dumbledore's mind with any real detail, he could feel the movement there, the chaotic roiling of thoughts and feelings unnamed.

He was certain Dumbledore was going to hold him back to talk about it in private. He just knew it.

So, when the meeting was finally called to an end a few short minutes later, Severus didn't even bother taking to his feet. There was really no point, he'd just be called back.

The others stalled a little on their way out the door — mostly simple dithering, without much real need to be anywhere else immediately, distracted by chattering. Though he did notice Septima was watching again, not just the blank staring Severus was really getting irritated with, but a suspicious, narrow-eyed thing, flicking between him and Dumbledore. Everyone else might be too thick or self-centered to see anything past their noses, but Septima, at least, had noticed he and Dumbledore were hanging back with intent for a private meeting.

The unnerving woman was intelligent enough she could probably deduce what it was about, too. It was common knowledge — though considered inappropriate to speak of directly, especially in his presence — that Severus had served the Dark Lord. From there, it took very minimal leaps of logic to come to the conclusion that, back in the war, Severus had been Dumbledore's spy, he didn't think there was anyone on the staff who  _hadn't_  put that together. (They were less likely to realise the war wasn't truly over, that that arrangement couldn't yet be referred to in the past tense.) From there, it wasn't hard to guess Severus consciously hadn't told Dumbledore about Potter transferring, and he was now about to be scolded about it.

She even almost looked sympathetic. He wasn't sure what the hell to think about that.

Eventually, they were alone. Severus might otherwise use  _finally_ , but he couldn't say he ever enjoyed his private chats with Dumbledore. Pouring himself another cup of coffee — not that he expected to be here long enough to finish the whole thing, it was just something to do with his hands — Severus said, 'Get on with it, then.'

Before Dumbledore even twitched, the air broke with pulses of tingling magic, thick enough he could almost taste it. Severus counted five — charms to ensure their privacy, he was certain. Voice low, heavy with disapproval, Dumbledore muttered, 'You did not tell me she intends to transfer.'

Severus took a sip, slower than was truly necessary. He had to hide a smile when Dumbledore's brow twitched at the delay. 'She does not  _intend to transfer_ , she  _has transferred_. Verbal conjugation can be so finicky, but as you are about to futilely try to convince me to somehow convince her to stay, I understand the confusion.'

That just made Dumbledore's brow dip further, almost legitimately appearing annoyed. Severus gave himself a point — Dumbledore virtually never let himself show even the slightest irritation, he'd been idly tallying his successes for years now. The old goat was silent for a moment, but he found his thoughts before too long. 'I was under the impression you felt invested in Hazel's safety.'

That was rich,  _Severus_  was the one being cavalier with her life. That was funny enough he couldn't even be too angry over...questioning his motivations or the attempted guilt trip, pick one, really. 'She'll be safer at Beauxbatons.'

'From hundreds of miles away, there will be no way to—'

'Her  _enemies_  will also be hundreds of miles away.' When Dumbledore just blinked at him, Severus couldn't restrain an exasperated sigh. 'Are you  _truly_  trying to tell me she's safer here? You  _do_  remember what happened this last year? If it isn't her classmates trying to curse her in the common room, it's bumbling into trolls in the bloody halls, or Dark Lords  _snatching her out of her bed_.' He tried not to think about that, it was fucking terrifying. Though, remembering the condition Quirrel's corpse had been in by the end of the night was quite comforting whenever he did. 'And we already know Lucius is plotting something, something that will unfold here at Hogwarts over the course of this year. And you think she's  _safer_  here, than she would be away at Beauxbatons? Don't make me laugh.'

Of course, Severus would hardly expect her life to be in any serious jeopardy if she were to stay at Hogwarts. Ordinarily, in some other universe, he might have been, but with Lily in there with her? There were very few things that posed a legitimate danger to her, short of the Dark Lord himself, and he wasn't likely to infiltrate the school again quite so soon. The idea of another student harming her was laughable, whatever Lucius was cooking up would have to be fucking impressive to even stand a shot. She wasn't so untouchable as she'd been when she'd been herself, handicapped as she was by her daughter's prepubescent magical resistance, but she was still  _Lily_.

Not that he would be explaining that — Dumbledore still had no idea "the voice" he'd said the girl had referred to was Lily herself, and it was better he never learn. But it was simply true Hogwarts would always be more of a risk for the Girl-Who-Lived, just for being the Girl-Who-Lived, that argument was easy enough to make.

Christ, he hated that hyphenated monstrosity...

Dumbledore looked rather uncomfortable, in the short silence after that ramble, as though he actually regretted the decisions he'd made that had led to the disaster that was the last academic year. Well, perhaps Severus should give him more credit than that — he was sure Dumbledore  _did_  regret it. He just thought it unlikely it would make any difference, he doubted Dumbledore would revise his methods at all, so his regret was bloody useless. 'Perhaps you are right. There are risks, in keeping Hazel here. But there are risks in having her so far away as well. If we can't keep an eye on her, there's no way to prevent—'

'Don't pretend this is about anything other than being displeased your little saviour has escaped your sphere of influence.' Severus was tempted to take another sip of coffee, but Dumbledore was opening his mouth to respond, couldn't have that. 'No way to prevent her learning magics you disapprove of. No way to prevent her associating with the "wrong" people. That's what you meant. You may not even believe it's what you meant, you may have deluded yourself just that well, but it is.'

Not that Dumbledore had been the slightest bit successful at that even with Hazel in Hogwarts, right here under his oversized nose. Severus knew for a fact Lily had continued her education — given he was almost certain the Restricted Section had been broken into, by the feel of it no small number of times, he'd wager Dumbledore would be mortified with the full breadth of whatever Hazel had picked up. During her time here she hadn't been the most social, nearly as much of a loner as Severus had been his first year, but the few friends she  _had_  managed to form were with people Dumbledore, he was sure, would rather she had never met. Davis, he might overlook Davis, but Greengrass?  _Zabini?_  No, Severus would wager her social contacts were a low-simmering concern of his. Not that he could imagine why Dumbledore should give a damn about the fickle relationships of prepubescent children, but he didn't have to understand it to know the judgmental old prick did.

Though, everything after the Sorting was simply worsening a suspicion that had already soured. Dumbledore's biases could be almost painfully obvious sometimes, and were no more aggravating than when it was over something so superficial. He  _pretended_  he thought no less of the Slytherins than his  _darling_  Gryffindors, well enough some were even convinced — they weren't bloody paying attention. It was subtle, he would grant that, but Severus had noticed anyone who had gone to Slytherin, or anyone from one of a few dozen of the Darker Noble Houses, they were immediately cast in a slight shade of suspicion from the outset. It could be overcome, of course, Dumbledore wasn't  _that_  irrational, but some people started at a handicap in his regard.

To Severus's face, he'd  _pretended_  it made no difference Hazel had been Sorted into Slytherin. Severus hadn't believed it for a second.

Irritating, to have his opinions influenced so strongly by a  _personality test_  given at age  _eleven_. That bloody hat had told him, at one point, that the Founders would likely disapprove of this whole Sorting business, some rather more violently than others. (The story about the Founders themselves instituting the practice was, apparently, pure myth, the house system invented centuries after their deaths.) The  _Sorting Hat itself_  said the Sorting did more harm than good, and should be discontinued. It was one of the few things the bloody thing had  _ever_  said Severus actually agreed with.

When Severus glanced up to meet Dumbledore's eyes, he saw the old man looked rather diminished, shoulders drooping and face lax with...something. It could be hard to read expressions in features so wizened, not to mention the bloody beard getting in the way, but it was probably disappointment, or sadness, or something like that. 'So this is how things will be, from now on.'

Severus was almost pleased Dumbledore had the decency to not fake surprise. For a moment, he hesitated, trying to decide exactly how honest he should be. Not  _completely_  honest, of course, but... 'She was miserable here, Albus.' He dropped the given name consciously, not out of any real feeling, but because it imitated feeling, because Dumbledore would read into it shades of emotion, for Potter and Dumbledore both, that were useful at the moment. 'Surely you aren't so blind as to have not noticed. Did you expect me to force her to stay where she is unhappy without a  _very_  good reason? She wasn't happy here. It's better she's gone.'

Though, if he were being  _completely_  honest, he'd jumped at the opportunity to get them the fuck away from Dumbledore. He had a feeling Lily had made of Hazel a horcrux, anchoring herself to existence. Somehow, accidentally. Well, not a proper horcrux — the horcrux was black magic, not a shade of doubt about that, and the ritual Lily had performed that Hallowe'en she swore was white. It didn't  _quite_  function as a proper horcrux either. A proper horcrux, there would be a Lily in Hazel's head, but it would be a copy, the original soul a wandering shade somewhere out in the world. There was no such thing, he'd done a scrying to be sure. No matter the proper terminology for exactly what was going on, it was functionally  _similar_  to a horcrux.

As far as he was concerned, that simply meant he had more reason to ensure the girl survived than before. Should she die, Lily would be lost all over again.

She would  _not_. Not if Severus could help it.

The point was, Dumbledore was, potentially, a very real threat. While he might not be intimately familiar with the subject, the supremely knowledgeable old sorcerer would certainly be aware of the existence of the horcrux. Severus couldn't predict how he would react, should he discover what Severus had come to understand, but it wouldn't be good. He wouldn't kill her, or at least not before the Dark Lord was dealt with, but beyond that...

No. No, Dumbledore couldn't know. The more distance kept between them, the better.

That expression on Dumbledore's face was...curious. Gone all slack, where it wasn't covered with beard, eyes widened enough to be noticeable. Was that...dumbfounded, that was the best word Severus could think of. Then his half-hidden mouth twitched into a smile, a touch of humour dropping into his voice. 'Why, Severus, I'm surprised.'

He knew he would regret asking. But there wasn't really anything else to do at this juncture, he would have to. 'You'll finish that thought eventually, I'm sure.' For a moment, he considered tacking on something about Dumbledore forgetting what he was saying halfway through a sentence, he  _was_  getting old, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.

Eyes almost twinkling again, Dumbledore said, 'Forgive me, my boy, but it seems somewhat out of character for you to concern yourself with a student's happiness.'

When Severus glared at him, that damn smile only got wider. 'Don't get excited. I won't be making a habit of it.'

'Still...' His eyes were doing that thing, whenever he was about to say something saccharine or hopelessly naive, going so bright Severus almost felt they were glowing, soft and warm. 'I had worried you hadn't had it in you. It warms my heart, to see you have learned to forgive, it—'

'I have not  _forgiven_  James Potter.' Lip curling in disgust, Severus forced the expression as sharp as it could be without looking silly, just to make the point. 'I haven't seen that he has done anything to earn it, and as he is now eleven years dead — a fact I find quite pleasant each and every time I'm reminded — I doubt I ever will. I was simply under the impression a child shouldn't be held accountable for the sins of her father. A personal notion of mine, unorthodox, I will admit.' Of course, given Hazel was apparently a lilin, Potter  _wasn't_  her father, not really — there was another fact that brought him no small satisfaction. But Dumbledore wasn't to know that for as long as possible, it would be rather counterproductive to gloat about it.

For that matter, he couldn't even say his treatment of students  _wasn't_  informed by what he knew of their parents. If Hazel were Potter's child, and her mother were  _anyone else_ , Severus was all but certain he would be his usual horrid self at every opportunity. But that wasn't really the point.

'Are we done here?' Severus had spoken just as Dumbledore had been opening his mouth to speak — probably something asinine, or infuriating, or both, he'd really rather this conversation was just over with already. 'As much as I know you enjoy torturing me, I do have things to do.'

His warm, kindly old smile shifted a little, slanting into a smirk. Mocking Severus in his head. He'd probably think it was a compliment, of course, but the smirk meant he knew Severus wouldn't, old berk entertained himself. 'Of course, Severus, I'm sure you are very busy. I won't squander any more of your precious time. See you tomorrow, then.'

Pushing himself to his feet, Severus held back a scoff.  _I won't waste any more of your time, at least not until tomorrow. I'll be annoying you then, though. Looking forward to it!_  The self-important, meddling old shite. Bare seconds, and Severus was snapping the door shut behind him — careful not to slam it, even if it would have been only carelessness. Severus walked away down the hall, glaring poison at the fearfully shuffling figures in the portraits along the way.

Only a couple weeks, before this circus started up again. Somehow, he knew this year was going to be even more tedious and frustrating than the last. And that had turned out to be a fucking disaster, hard to imagine how it could possibly get worse, but he knew it, he could just feel it. Lucius planning something sure to be ill-conceived and volatile, Dumbledore being a nosey bastard, Septima, just Septima, the news about Hazel sure to break any day,  _Gilderoy fucking Lockhart_...

He needed a goddamn cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychopharmacology —  _Pieced together from Greek roots (ψῡχή, φάρμακον, λογίᾱ) to get a word for a Healing specialty more or less analogous to irl psychiatry. Any word ending in -pharmacology is going to involve healing potions, psycho- is specific to the mind._
> 
> thaumatramatic —  _More Greek roots (θαῦμα, τραῦμα) to get a technical term for curse damage._
> 
> [The story about the Founders themselves instituting the practice was, apparently, pure myth] —  _In headcanon, true. The Sorting Hat was created by Gryffindor, but not for that purpose. It was bound to the wards and compelled to officiate the Sorting by a Headmaster some time down the road. Which the Hat was less than pleased about — it may be housed in a bit of old headgear, but it is a sapient being, forced against its will into a form of magical slavery. Poor dear._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _So, I know it's been a ridiculously long time. Life has been weird lately._
> 
>  
> 
> _I did start on chapter ten immediately after finishing nine, but... I got it out to about 8800 words, which was...maybe 2/3rds? And then I didn't touch it at all for weeks. Part of it was just being tired from work, or being distracting — took a week and a half vacation back to Minnesota somewhere in there. I wrote a bit on other projects, and there was a time I was nearly convinced I'd never finish this fic. Actually, I was pretty sure I was gonna abandon HP fanfic entirely, work on something else._
> 
>  
> 
> _Then, I decided it might be the chapter itself that was the problem. So, about two weeks ago now — that's nearly two months after chapter nine was posted — I restarted, with a completely different scene, chronologically a few weeks later. This new version of chapter ten got out to 6900 words...before that died too. Yeah._
> 
>  
> 
> _Just a couple days ago, I started this, the third version of chapter ten. Felt very awkward writing it, but I did actually finish it, so...yay?_
> 
>  
> 
>  _Hopefully, this will be me being back back, but I can't make any promises. I am going to have to rethink what I'm going to have be chapter eleven — version two, which would probably make the most sense, clearly just isn't working. Probably going to jump_ in medias res _with Hazel at Beauxbatons, just so I can bloody get through it._
> 
>  
> 
> _That should mean less exposition, though, and I'm told I have a problem dumping on too much of that. So, I guess it's a mixed bag._
> 
>  
> 
> _I am considering what I'm going to do when this fic is done. It probably won't be another pure HP fic, I'm seriously starting to burn out on HP, but there are a few crossovers that might work. I'll have more details and probably a poll up on FFN when it's getting closer to time._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Anyway. Sorry about the wait,_  
>  ~Wings


	11. Personae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, it's Beauxbatons.

When Hazel got down for breakfast, she was struck with a sudden sense of relief when she didn't see Gabbie or Evi. Making her way toward the counter, she idly wondered if she should feel guilty about that. She didn't, of course, but...

_It sounded like Gabbie was only a few minutes behind you, but I doubt Evi will turn up._

Dammit, have to move quick. But, wait, was Evi just never going to turn up for breakfast? She'd only come for dinner the last couple days, true, but she  _did_  have to eat...

 _Windows_.

Hazel blinked, looked up to glance around the refectory. It was an odd little building, made with rosy woods gleaming in the morning light, the ubiquitous silver trim that seemed to be bloody everywhere, all delicate curving lines smooth and organic, almost painfully bright the few places it caught direct sun. What made it odd was the shape of the place: it was vaguely round, with what Hazel presumed to be a kitchen hidden in the middle, surrounding by dining areas split by dividers into five mostly closed-off sectors. (At least, Hazel assumed there were five, she'd only been in this one, just seen glimpses of the two neighbouring ones.) The floor was almost hidden with dozens of little tables, one Sirius sept or another seated about each. At least, they were  _supposed_  to stay with their sept for at least the first week, she wouldn't be surprised if students were moving around, especially the upper years.

The point Mum was making, every sector had windows along the outside wall, quite nearly the entire surface waist height to ceiling. (Which was only maybe ten feet or so, but still.) In some places, clear glass, in other places stained panes fitted into complex, seemingly random patterns, throwing chinks of technicolour light all over the room. It was sort of pretty, she guessed, especially in the morning — since their windows happened to be facing east, they got a lot of sunlight hitting the stained glass, the whole room practically glowed with it, all soft and hazy colourful. But, well, it  _would_  be particularly hard for Evi to avoid getting any direct sun. She did just pull the scarf below her chin to eat, kept the gloves and the ridiculous hat and sunglasses on, but maybe just that was still too much exposure for vampires.

_Not enough to seriously hurt her, but she'd probably be ill the rest of the day, yeah. You're not likely to see her here in the mornings. At least not for a couple months._

Hmm. Hazel grabbed a bowl of porridge when the line had moved along the counter enough. Already had strawberries and blackberries thick along the top, but she spooned plenty of brown sugar over it anyway. She felt Mum cringe in the back of her head, but that wasn't anything new — Mum thought it was kinda gross how sweet she took, well, almost everything. Which was a bit hypocritical, she'd seen how much honey Mum put in her tea. Starting back toward their table, Hazel couldn't help feeling it was a good thing Evi would be around less.

_Here I wouldn't expect you of all people to have a problem with nonhuman beings._

It's not that, really. Evi was just...vaguely unnerving. She couldn't even say why.

_You don't like Gabbie either._

Gabbie was annoying. And, hey, she liked Dragí just fine!  _He_  wasn't human. In fact, depending on how you looked at it, he was the  _least_  human person she'd ever met!

_You know, it is sort of inherently funny for a lilin to bother defending herself against claims of humanocentrism._

Mum was just messing with her, wasn't she.

 _A little bit, yes_.

Shut up.

Hazel plopped down at her assigned table, gave little nods to the grumbled  _good mornings_  from Loís and Winoc, the only other two here yet. Winoc, stocky and red-faced and fair-haired, was British, and therefore annoying — British mages and their Girl-Who-Lived nonsense, honestly, he was almost as bad as some of the bloody Hufflepuffs. At least he'd learned better quickly, only staring at her wide-eyed as she fixed her coffee for a few seconds before dropping back to his own breakfast. Loís was much better. Tiny and dark and ridiculously quiet, he barely talked at all. Hazel was surprised he'd mustered up the will for a greeting at all, honestly.

Beauxbatons didn't do houses — the closest they came were these things they called septs.  _Sept_ , because there were seven people in each one (or less or more, to split people as evenly as possible, but theoretically). There had been this big entrance exam Hazel had had to take, which had been somewhat annoying, though the major benefit was the classes she could take weren't based on her age, but how well she did on the exam. Even though she was technically considered a "first" year — they meant how long a person had been in the program, any previous education didn't count — she would probably be moving on to the Proficiency program, equivalent to NEWT classes back home, starting in "third" year. Which would actually be her fourth year of school, with Hogwarts, so two years early. (Though, Beauxbatons generally took their Competency exams at the end of their fourth year, so only one year early here, but still.) She could probably get three years ahead if she really wanted, if she crammed her schedule this year and did some independent study to fill the gaps, but she didn't care enough to work that hard.

Anyway, septs were put together based on some obscure formula that hadn't been exactly explained, but it had something to do with how they'd all scored on the entrance exam, normalised somehow against how much previous education they'd had. They were named after the five brightest stars in the sky, the Sirius septs being filled with the highest scorers.

So, all the people in her little group would naturally be a bit...odd. Smart people could be that way, after all. Having at least one quiet, nerdy type like Loís was just expected. She was a bit grateful for it, actually. Her dorm was nice, but seriously fucking noisy, getting a few peaceful moments over breakfast was a bloody godsend. Not that she expected it to last very long. Dragí and Cvétka should show up any minute, not to mention the goddamn veela. She would enjoy it while it lasted.

 _Speak of the devil_.

Having Mum around meant that she sort of had eyes in the back of her head — perhaps just because she was a disembodied consciousness, Mum's ability to sense her surroundings was ridiculously precise, and it wasn't directional, didn't matter which way Hazel was facing. But just because Mum could see something coming and warn her didn't mean Hazel would have enough time to do anything about it.

When the larger body came slamming into her back, arms slinging around her shoulders, the force was enough Hazel jerked forward, a hand slamming down to stop herself from planting her face into the table. She grit her teeth, coffee slopping out of her cup in the other, hand shaking as the sense of almost unbearable heat, painful enough it didn't really even feel wet, crawled over her fingers and down her arm. And Gabbie was blabbering in her ear about something, Hazel wasn't paying attention. Despite the heat on her hand and arm, the warmth of the aggravating little idiot of a veela surrounding her, she felt abruptly cold, enough she almost felt like shivering.

_Hazel, don't do anything—_

A vengeful song rising in her blood, Hazel twisted a little, jabbed her elbow behind her. By some miracle, she actually managed to find Gabbie's stomach. Others might find it even more of a miracle that she successfully cast a bludgeoning hex out of her elbow and through her clothes, but Hazel hadn't even thought twice whether it was possible or not. Which is probably why it worked, really, magic could be weird like that.

The hair against her neck, the arms over her, were instantly whipped away, retreating with a low, pained wheezing. Gingerly, Hazel set her coffee down and, holding her wet and stinging hand uselessly in the air, turned around in her seat to glare behind her.

Gabbie was, she was pretty sure, the very first veela Hazel had ever met. She certainly wasn't the last, since the lilin and veela all shared a dorm she'd met a few more, but she was thus far the most annoying. She was a little older than Hazel — different races sometimes sent their kids off for school at slightly different ages, Hazel had noticed the other veela and lilin "first years" were all a year or two older than her — though it was just  _barely_  noticeable, more in the slightly greater flaring of her skirt than anything. That and she was significantly taller than Hazel, but practically everyone was. She had that silvery hair, looking more like moonlight somehow captured than anything a person could ever have, that seemed to be common in certain veela clans, there was a lot of that unnatural hair around. Less unnatural than her eyes, anyway. It was only obvious from really close up, but her eyes looked completely inhuman, a bright avian yellow, flecked with chips of orange. That, she'd noticed, was  _also_  common in veela, and lilin too, Hazel's green eyes were actually unusual by their standards.

Like always, she had three feathers — two gold and white, one black and purple — plaited into her hair, tucked behind an ear. Virtually every veela or lilin Hazel had met did that (usually just the one kind, Gabbie's being mixed was unusual), and she still hadn't gotten an explanation why. Of course, she hadn't actually asked anyone either, but...

Today as always, even bent over clutching her middle and her face pulled into a grimace of rueful pain, Gabbie was unfairly adorable. Hazel wasn't even sure how she managed that. It could just be the way she was naturally — she of the tiny button nose and big eyes and pert smiling lips. Maybe it was that she actually put some effort into it. That was why Hazel had gotten here first, after all. They  _had_  woken up at roughly the same time — dozens of lilin and veela in one place made a bloody racket, she hadn't much choice in the matter — but Gabbie had been doing...well, makeup and hair stuff. Hazel could tell just looking at her she'd done things, there was a noticeable difference compared to just spilling out of bed, but she couldn't even begin to guess at what.

Of course, it could also just be the luck of the draw. The steel blue, silver, and white of the Beauxbatons uniform went perfectly fine with Gabbie's unnaturally metallic hair. When she'd caught a glance of herself in a mirror, Hazel had noticed that her own hair clashed somehow. Which was odd, she wouldn't think her deep red — equally unnatural, actually, Mum was all but certain some of their ancestors had modified themselves with blood magic — should look  _that_  bad against this soft blue. But, inexplicably, it did. Her hair settling against her blazer was  _completely_  unmissable, and not in a good way either. At least they didn't have to wear the bloody hat on a daily basis if they didn't want to, that looked even worse.

Which, well, fine, there were plenty of people who were prettier than her, same was true of virtually everyone. The weird thing was, these last couple days she'd found herself  _caring_. And she had absolutely no idea why. It wasn't a huge deal, not like she was getting  _too_  worked up about it. It was just faintly...annoying wasn't quite the right word, but it was just a niggling sense of  _something_  every time she found herself standing right next to Gabbie. The irritatingly energetic and cheerful veela looking all neat and pretty and bloody perfect, Hazel her usual messy self, her bloody impossible hair fucking everywhere, even when she tied it back there would be fuzz and shite escaping anything she could possibly do, her uniform rumpled from having just been thrown on her floor overnight, slouching and moody, she was sure she had a mark on her cheek this morning from sleeping on her own knuckles. It was just... She always felt like she was losing somehow, at some game she hadn't realised she was playing, and didn't know the rules to. It was irritating.

Mum had made some suggestions, that there were simple charms to neaten out her clothes, the hair could be fixable with certain potions, Mum could do her makeup for her if she wanted (Hazel couldn't even begin to guess at how to go about it herself). Her posture and demeanor would be more difficult to do anything about, but they could work at it. There were things she could do, was the point, Mum would help.

But Hazel had refused. If looking like a mess next to perfect bloody Gabrielle fucking Delacour was losing one game, actually doing anything about it was losing a different one. She was aware she was very weird, but it felt like surrender, if felt like  _letting_  Gabbie win, and she wouldn't have it.

Anyway, in the present moment, Gabbie was giving her a look. Not exactly a glare — and she would have every reason to glare, Hazel had just shot her with a hex point-blank in the stomach, she hadn't stopped wheezing from it yet. If anything, Hazel thought Gabbie might look hurt. Not physically, she meant, emotionally, as though she were offended, betrayed by Hazel hexing her. Which was bloody annoying, this girl, honestly. 'What did I do?' she said, hitting the consonants hard and singing the vowels, French touched with that at once harsh and musical accent of hers. Of most veela and lilin, actually, which made sense, they did have their own language.

Hazel had one too, of course, though not the same one — Mum could download the words into her head but not the muscle memory to speak it properly, she had an atrocious English accent. But, she didn't need to actually say anything to answer. Hazel held out her hand, the one still dripping with spilled coffee, skin flushed with heat just short of burning.

Her eyes flicking down to Hazel's hand, then to the table, Gabbie winced. 'Sorry, I wasn't thinking.'

That was fucking obvious. But, somewhat to Hazel's surprise, Gabbie  _did_  look sorry — her eyes had gone all wide and watery, which might be from the pain of the hex but still, seeming to cringe away slightly, almost pouting down at her. And Hazel had been angry, she  _wanted_  to still be angry, but she felt it drain away, leaving her feeling vaguely... She didn't know. Being cruel to Gabbie when she was being all pathetic like this would feel too much like kicking a puppy or something. So she let out a sigh, turning around back to the table. Working at charms to dry and cool her hand, she muttered, 'It's fine, forget it.' Gabbie was lucky Hazel had such a weakness for adorableness.

She really did hate her sometimes, a little.

At least, when Gabbie did recover enough to sit down — in the seat right next to Hazel, of course, she'd even pulled her chair a little closer — she was being rather still and quiet. Still and quiet for her, anyway. She swore, this girl had to have a low-level cheering charm going on at all hours of the day, some potions or something, there was no way someone could be this energetic and upbeat all the fucking time. She was just sitting there, picking at her muffin, softly blabbing away about...something to do with one of her cousins, Hazel wasn't listening. Girl never bloody shut up. She  _really_  wished Gabbie hadn't decided to attach herself to Hazel, it was annoying.

She did understand why she had...sort of. See, Gabbie was...whatever the fuck the term was, Hazel couldn't remember. A veela with a lilin father, that thing — Gabbie just said "halfie" like everyone was supposed to understand what she meant by that. Hazel was another "halfie" as Gabbie insisted on calling them every bloody time, though the opposite kind. Which was apparently significant. They were rare, Gabbie'd said, she'd only ever met a few others before, and never one around her age. This was sort of a big deal to Gabbie, for reasons...well, for reasons. Hazel didn't really get it.

It  _would_  be enough for Hazel to at least try to be nicer, if Gabbie weren't so bloody annoying.

She only had to deal with a few more minutes of prattling, burying herself as solidly in her porridge as she could, before Cvétka was taking one of the few remaining seats. Cvétka — a girl a good head taller than her, built slender and hard, as though she spent a lot of time running around, skin bronzed by sun, sparkling blue eyes half-hidden under black hair nearly as messy as Hazel's, though cut rather shorter, nowhere hanging lower than her ears — Hazel actually sort of liked. Mum had said, of course Hazel liked her, she was the only girl she'd ever met (with the possible exception of Dora) who was more of a tomboy than she was, which...well, Hazel wasn't sure she even counted. She didn't think anyone who avoided wearing trousers whenever possible — and, Hazel being a girl and all, that was pretty much always possible — could ever really be considered a proper tomboy.

But, she didn't think it was that, really. Sure, Cvétka wasn't all silly about stupid girly stuff, as other people could be — actually, she even wore the trousers with her uniform, but they were allowed to do that, she was far from the only girl who did. (People did actually wear trousers here, Hazel didn't think she'd seen a single Continental mage in robes yet.) But her history, her relationship with Dragi was bloody  _fascinating_ , and she got huge points to begin with just for being much quieter than the goddamn veela. Really, when she got to the table, she just sat and reached for the juice, shooting a smile around the table, didn't even say a word. She had a sweet smile, all soft and warm and pleasant. Like pretty much everything about her, really.

Winoc, frowning to himself in confusion, asked, 'Where's Dragí?' Not an unreasonable question, really — Hazel wasn't sure she'd ever seen one without the other.

Turning her friendly smile on Winoc, even while fixing a cup of coffee (for Dragí, presumably, Cvétka always drank juice), she said, 'He's picking up our breakfast, be along in a minute.' Like everyone in their sept who wasn't Loís, there was an obvious accent on her French, from...whatever her native language was, Hazel had honestly forgotten where she and Dragí were from.

 _They're Slovenian_.

Right. And...where exactly was that again?

Instead of answering with anything identifiable as words, Mum sent her an impression of a map of Europe, a tiny little country just to the east of Italy highlighted.

Oh. Honestly, Hazel hadn't even known there was a country there. Wasn't all that down there just Yugoslavia?

_I honestly have no idea what the borders are like on the magical side. Muggle Slovenia seceded just last year, though._

So...it didn't really matter that much then, did it? Mum should just say Eastern Europe next time.

Hazel could almost feel Mum sighing at her.

It hardly took any time at all — Gabbie only got out a few more rapid-fire sentences about something to do with her Charms professor when Dragí appeared, announced by the thunk of a plate of eggs and a couple unfamiliar sweet rolls hitting the table in front of Cvétka. (Those looked pretty good, actually, maybe Hazel should actually pay attention to what they have up there next time.) Dragí was a rather scrawny-looking boy with almost over-large ears and eyes, shaggy dirty-blond hair mostly obscuring the former, the latter gleaming a bright amber where they caught the sun. Plucking a sausage off of his own plate — just a pile of sausage and a second pile of berries, she'd already noticed Dragí could be very picky — he leaned against Cvétka's shoulder, crown tucked just under her chin. Seemingly without thought, Cvétka's left hand came up, fingers absently carding through his messy hair.

Hazel still found Cvétka and Dragí absolutely fascinating.

As she'd thought to Mum earlier, Dragí was, technically, the least human person she'd ever met. Sometimes, while transformed, animagi have sex with the kind of animal they transform into — it's not at all considered something appropriate to talk about in public, but it does happen. Rarely, the animal in question ends up pregnant, but they don't end up exactly like mother or father. The best way to think of them was, sort of, animagi in reverse: animals, with more or less human-level intelligence, born with the ability to shift into a human form if they wish. This meant wilderfolk, as they were called, were the only race of magical beings in the world with recent non-being ancestors. In Dragí's case, his family tree would include human animagi and ordinary Eurasian wolves.

Even among wilderfolk, Dragí was a bit unusual. It was uncommon for wilderfolk to participate in greater magical society at all — they tend to identify more with their animal heritage, sort of like how animagi still considered themselves fully human — and even rarer for any to be capable of the slightest magic. It was  _assumed_  magic was rare in wilderfolk, anyway, with how they kept to themselves nobody was even certain how many were out there, could be completely wrong. In any case, it was  _exceptionally_  rare to see a wilderfolk formally studying magic, at a proper school and everything — in its entire thousand-year history, Beauxbatons has had  _maybe_  a dozen wilderfolk students, and most other schools of magic haven't even had that many.

But, well, Dragí's situation was unusual. He'd been too young to remember, but he knew something terrible had happened to his birth family. When Cvétka had been three or so, her family had gone on a trip into the wilderness in the mountains, where, by complete chance, she'd stumbled on a wolf pup curled up unconscious in the bushes, starving and ill and alone. She'd demanded they bring him back with them, nurse the poor thing back to health. They'd had no idea he wasn't an ordinary wolf until he'd first shifted in front of them — by the way Cvétka told the story, it sounded like that might not have been until some months later.

And ever since, Cvétka and Dragí had been completely inseparable. They'd firmly requested to be put in the same sept, they had the exact same schedule — luckily for them, they were possessed of similar enough degrees of cleverness and magical talent for that to be practical. According to Camila, Hazel's Potions partner, they shared a dorm room, Dragí sleeping as a wolf curled up at the foot of Cvétka's bed. More than that, Camila had whispered, with a sort of scandalised giggle, they even  _bathed_  together, they'd been spotted at least once making for one of the private stalls in the girls' baths, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness.

Hazel found the whole thing absolutely fascinating, and she couldn't even really say why. She just... She didn't know. They were just interesting, was all.

Staring at Gabbie with that unnervingly steady gaze of his — she'd been told it unnerved other people, at least, Hazel hardly noticed — Dragí said, 'She's not listening to you again.' His voice was low and flat as he said it, empty of any real tone at all. Just stating a fact with all the finesse and subtlety of a socially inept brick.

Of course, Hazel's fascination might just be because she thought Dragí was sort of great. Brilliant, really.

_And of course you like him, he's almost as terrible at normal human social interaction as you are._

Was that supposed to be teasing? That sort of felt like it was supposed to be teasing, but it didn't really land. It was just, well, true, and Hazel didn't even mind it was true. Not very effective.

_I could tease you about having an adorable little crush on a boy instead._

Ignoring the continuing conversation around her — Gabbie was pouting and whining and being generally insufferable, she wasn't missing a lot — Hazel frowned to herself, turning over the suggestion. After a moment of thought, she shrugged it off. She did find Dragí unusually compelling, but she didn't think that was a crush, exactly.  _Yet_. Sort of needed the proper hormones for that, she thought. Wouldn't at all surprise her if she  _did_  end up developing one when that puberty thing happened, but as of this moment, no, didn't really count. He was just interesting.

_You're very strange, you know._

Yeah, Mum had told her enough times she'd gotten the idea.

_I'm sorry, I don't mean to..._

Er, Hazel  _really_  didn't mind being strange, Mum could keep thinking it. It just got a little repetitive, saying it all the time. It didn't even help her pin down what exactly was strange about her, since Mum never explained how a  _normal_  person should be reacting, so it wasn't even helpful. Just tedious.

_I wouldn't even know how to... It doesn't matter, never mind. You should start thinking about going, it's quite a walk to your first class._

Hazel glanced toward the kitchen, searching out the clock on the wall. Hmm, Mum was right, she didn't have a whole lot of time. Her first class was way over in a different college as the rest, it took a bit to get there. She quick scooped up the last few berries, threw back the rest of her coffee. And cringed — she'd never had fruit and coffee in her mouth at the same time before, it was  _weird_. At length she managed to swallow, wiping at her mouth with a low  _blech_  noise. 'Anyway,' she said, pushing herself to her feet, 'I have a class at Rantanen. See ya.' Meeting the chorus of  _good byes_  said with varying levels of interest and enthusiasm with an absent wave, Hazel turned and started on her way off.

Much like Hogwarts, and the older village it was attached to, Beauxbatons was settled in a mountain valley, a little smaller. Unlike Hogwarts, the place was bloody  _packed_. Maybe about four times as long as it was wide, running vaguely northeast-southwest, the little academic town was surrounded with hills of crumbling limestone, here falling into low curves and there stretching into asymmetrical peaks, pale stone glowing bright in the morning sun. Only where it wasn't covered with grasses and bushes, anyway, they were eroded enough there was plenty of soil for things to grow on, though up there too thin and rocky for trees proper. When Hazel had been here for her exams, nearly the entire western face had been carpeted in wildflowers blue and yellow and red, but it was all green now, too late in the season.

The campus proper was to the northeast, hugging the hills and extending out over about a fifth of the valley. Dozens of buildings, some old blocky stone things dating back centuries, other newer things of softer woods and blue-tinted tile — dorms, class halls, offices, all kinds of things. One building, containing a couple lecture halls and an auditorium, seemed to be made entirely out of semi-transparent glass, the base swirls of deep blues and blacks, lightening as it rose, ending in twisting spires of pale pink, impurities glittering in even the darkest night. Made about fifty years ago by Flamel himself, she'd been told, as a gift to the academy. She'd never been in it yet, but it was pretty from the outside at least.

Beyond the edge of the campus, delineated with silver gates so thin and pretty they were obviously decorative, was the rest of the town. A rather impressively-sized town at that, at least by magical standards. Little meandering streets, lined with houses and shops and offices and restaurants, all kinds of junk, extending for a good couple miles to the southwest. Far enough Hazel couldn't see the whole thing, obscured by the faces of too many buildings, the leaves of too many trees. She could see from her dorm, though — she could tell even from a distance the place was colourful, many of the streets paved with gleaming tile, homes with windows framed in brilliantly dyed curtains, gardens filled with greens and reds and purples and blues. Her first night here, she'd stood out looking over the valley for some minutes, thrown with deep reds and thin shadows as the sun dropped beneath the hills.

It was a nice place, was the point. Though she hadn't actually been out into the town yet — Camila, who had grown up here, had said she was going to show her around her neighborhood some weekend, they were allowed to go out whenever they wanted. Though, in their uniforms and on their best behaviour, be too awful and there will be consequences, blah blah. Hazel was sure she would be bored, being dragged around by the silly girl, but at least it would be pretty.

Anyway, Hazel's first class of the day — the days that were Monday and Tuesday and Thursday, that is — was actually the most advanced class she was in, and it was one Hogwarts didn't even offer. There were advantages to Beauxbatons being so much larger than Hogwarts, one of the big ones being they had the resources to offer many, many more classes in far more varied subjects. For example, this term Hazel was taking an elective on the political and cultural geography of modern magical Europe — since she didn't really know bloody anything about it, that'd just seemed the smart thing to do — and another on Aquitanian literature — which was  _in_  Aquitanian, of course, but the language was similar enough to French and Spanish Mum thought they might be able to pick up Aquitanian pretty quickly just trying to read it. Those weren't until Friday, though, so she had no clue what they would be like, but Hogwarts didn't even have anything at all like that.

The class Hazel was going to now was called, translated,  _Special Survey of Practical Free Methods_. Which was academic speak for  _a whole bunch of neat things you can only do if you can cast magic wandlessly_. It was, technically, a class for certain Mastery students — she wasn't the only younger person taking it, though she was the young _est_. Which meant it was all the way the hell in Rantanen College. Which was almost exactly on the opposite side of the campus from where she'd been. Which, with how the paths meandered and the buildings in the way and just how bloody  _far_  it was, meant it took a good twenty minutes to walk there.

She could just pop straight there, of course. Didn't even need to use shadow magic, only apparation coming into the campus from outside was blocked, point-to-point still worked. But Hazel didn't mind walking. It was nice here.

That she  _really_  hated how apparation squeezed at her was a contributing factor, though.

When she did get to the classroom, squirrelled deep in an old granite thing with low ceilings and insufficient lighting, making the place seem far too closed in and moody, she noticed she was quite nearly the last to arrive. Which, fine, she had had the longest walk, they could all stop staring at her like that. Though they did always stare at her. Taking a seat at one of the few empty spaces in the circle of chairs, she noticed she got more lingering glances than was really necessary from the nine other people in the room, brows furrowed, and lips tight.

Of course, that wasn't new. They weren't used to her being here yet. The reaction to her taking this class had been a bit...much. See, of the eleven people taking this class, eight were in one Mastery program or another, and the other two were Proficiency students. The former were all adults, mostly in mid-twenties, even the latter in their last year, seventeen or so. She was younger than any of them, by quite a bit. Which, well, she  _had_  cheated. She'd started practising wandless magic before she'd hardly even seen a wand — which meant, despite how much younger she was, she technically had the  _most_  experience with this particular subject matter. Even normal lilin, innately magical in a way humans simply weren't, were more sensitive to external magics, could learn to directly manipulate their own magic more easily. Mum thought having her there might have changed Hazel too, the extra soul her body was carrying around augmenting her magic, making it more reactive, closer to the surface. This course didn't really require much outside theory either, all those years of education they had on her made...well, not  _no_  difference, but far less than they would in any other subject. So it really made sense she'd be here younger than anyone else, this was the one special skill she had above virtually everyone. It was her thing.

But they still looked at her weird. She couldn't say weird  _how_ , just weird. It made this class rather awkward, really, she hoped they'd get over it before too long.

Eventually, the class started up, so they had something else to stare at than her. The professor, an American man whose name Hazel couldn't even remember much less properly pronounce, had started talking, explaining the exercise they'd be doing today. And, once again, Hazel was struck with the amusing thought that Hermione would  _hate_ this class. There was no textbook, no readings, nothing to take notes about, no spells or rules to memorise, no solid  _facts_. Instead it was all about feelings, and patience, and intuition, everything very subjective. The professor less dictating knowledge to them, more guiding them in acquiring a skill, learning a process.

Today, like Tuesday, he'd prepared a few enchantments beforehand, set into little clay discs. Each was enchanted with two spells, very different spells. Their goal for today was to feel the magic out, try to distinguish the line between one spell and the other. ("Line" used metaphorically, of course, they occupied the same physical space.) If they were lucky, try to determine exactly what the two spells were — though he didn't expect any of them to manage that, it could be hard for even more experienced users to properly identify two spells on top of each other.

Very subjective, very open-ended, with no immediate or clearly-defined goal. Just getting a feel for the way magic interacted with itself and with them, training a skill they'd be slowly nurturing over the entire term. Even then they wouldn't have mastered it, it was debatable whether anyone  _could_  master it, if the concept had any meaning here.

Yes, Hermione would despise this, she didn't even have to ask.

Listening to how other people described what wandless magic — or free casting, as they called it here — felt like was more than a little fascinating. It never seemed to be  _exactly_  the same for any two people. Much like Mum, they described the touch of magic as a physical sensation, tingling and prickling against their skin, the spells themselves as multidimensional forms of colour and motion. They had names for the shapes, which they must have learned in some advanced arithmancy class, totally unfamiliar big strings of Greek roots, no idea what they were supposed to mean. But, she did notice that nobody used the exact same combination of shape and colour, which was...weird. Mum had always said the shape she imagined wandless spells to be was the true, pseudo-physical form of the magical energy itself — that it was objective, a reflection of what the magic was. That it varied person to person, though, implied it was somehow dependent on how each person perceived magic, which was always subtly different, due to tiny variations in mind and body.

Which was itself an interesting thought. Mum had made mistakes, of course, but Hazel could remember very few times she'd ever been just plain  _wrong_  about something.

Of course, her own descriptions of things were always very different. The others had been baffled for a moment, until the professor had explained lilin (and veela) almost always perceive magic as sound, that's just expected. But they still looked at her weird every time she opened her mouth, it was awkward.

Like the two she'd had so far, the entire session was just vaguely uncomfortable, but luckily it was only an hour. And now she had to move really bloody fast. Her Transfiguration class started in ten minutes, and it just happened to be way back where she'd started. There was absolutely no way she'd be able to walk there in time.

So, as soon as she got back out of the class hall, the light breeze tickling at her hair, Mum took over, and brought them through shadows straight to the path before the proper building. Hazel had to take a moment to gather herself — she  _hated_  apparation, but being dragged through black nothingness like that was very disorienting. She avoided it whenever feasible for a reason.

This building was rather newer than the other, though rather plain, all undecorated wood and blocky windows and deep blue carpets. Most all of the Competency classes in Transfiguration and Charms were held here. There were a couple exceptions, she knew, but most of them. The class, when she got there, was mostly empty, only a few people already having trickled in. Hazel sat at her assigned table, then closed her eyes, took a deep breath.

Over the summer, Mum had started Hazel in on shadow magic. Somewhat to the surprise of both of them, Hazel was picking it up rather faster than most things — which was weird, she  _still_  wasn't sure how she felt about the stuff. While she couldn't do that shadow-walking thing yet, there was one trick she'd mostly got down.

Hazel imagined her Transfiguration notebook, her text, her pen case. They belonged to her, which was like being a part of her; things that were a part of her were always with her. There was no real difference between being with her and being on the table in front of her — they were still her belongings, weren't they, still a part of her? She formed the spell with one hand, a discordant, almost teeth-grating chord of blacks and oranges, and pushed the idea through it and into reality.

Her things snapped back into existence, on the table in front of her. Without a sound, without any flashy bursts of light — once second they didn't exist, the next they did, as though they'd been there all along.

Shadow magic was  _very_  strange sometimes, if she thought about it too hard.

Of all her classes, Transfiguration was actually the  _least_  advanced she was in. It was only the normal second-year course, nothing special. Though, really, that was pretty much expected: Transfiguration had never been her best subject, and Beauxbatons taught it completely differently in any case.

See, when it came to standardised magical education, there were two models that were used, in one form or another, by pretty much every institution in Europe (and a few other places too, actually, but mostly just Europe). One model was originally formulated in Renaissance Florence, many of the standard charms Europeans taught found in one version or another of the primitive educational standards of the time — which is why they're all in Latin, the language was still used for academic and professional purposes back then. The original forms were refined over the years, eventually expanded and tweaked into an entire curriculum, each school in Europe choosing their own version. Hogwarts still used the old Italian model, with the exception of Arithmancy, which hadn't quite existed back then.

Beauxbatons, however, did not — in fact, the new model, now adopted by the majority of European schools of magic, had originally been designed at Beauxbatons, in the late eighteenth, early nineteenth centuries. While the changes to, say, Charms classes were relatively minor, just a few spells added to or removed from the list, some changes in how the theory was taught, Potions had seen a few more obvious changes, and Runes and Transfiguration were almost unrecognisable. The changes to Transfiguration (and Runes too, actually) had mostly been inspired by contact with other magical cultures, particularly in the Far East and the Americas. Much as how old Europeans hadn't conceptualised transfiguration and conjuration as distinct forms of magic, these other peoples considered most forms of alchemy to be another part of the same whole.

The curriculum for her Transfiguration course for this year, the second one in the subject most students who had started at Beauxbatons would take, included not just inanimate and a few basic animate transfigurations, but also a little bit of elemental conjuration, and a very slow introduction into physical alchemy. The transfigurations shouldn't be too much of a problem, but she hadn't attempted any conjuration yet, and even  _Mum_  didn't know how to do the alchemy she'd be learning. It quite simply wasn't taught at Hogwarts.

Yeah, it really wasn't surprising she hadn't gotten into a more advanced course.

Though this class was rather boring. Not necessarily because of the material — she was a little ahead of the curriculum so far as plain transfiguration was concerned, but she was actually  _behind_  on alchemy, so it balanced out. No, she just hadn't found anyone interesting to talk to in this one yet. There had to be one somewhere — there were a good twenty-five people in the class — but every one she'd talked to were all...well, normal people. The entire class was all human kids, eleven or twelve years old. Normal kids, nobody stuck out that much, always talking about their normal kid things, which always struck Hazel as  _boring_. Pointless shite about their families, gossiping about other kids and their families, shite about famous musicians or books she'd never heard of or... Nothing she cared about. At all.

Which was fine. She could just focus on what they were supposed to be learning for the duration, skip out as soon as it was done. She'd just rather it were more entertaining, her attention tended to wander when she was bored. Hadn't missed anything yet, but, well, it'd only been three days...

When it came time for lunch, Hazel glanced toward the table to see Gabbie already there, chatting with Winoc. So she just grabbed a sandwich and sat outside on the grass instead.

She didn't have to stall too annoyingly long before it was time for Charms. This class, she'd taken something of a gamble on. It wasn't that different than at Hogwarts — the library of spells they went through was a bit different in places, Mum said it progressed somewhat quicker. (Of course, that might just be due to the spells they skipped, it was hard to tell.) Hazel had tested into their fourth year course...mostly. There were a few blank spots, where Hogwarts hadn't taught spells Beauxbatons did — even Mum very likely didn't know them all, spells she'd simply never learned — so she was still a little bit behind. Which, ordinarily, wouldn't be much of a problem.

Except the Competency exams were done at the end of  _fourth_  year, not fifth. To make sure she would do well on the Charms exam in June, she'd have to pay attention in class, and also go back through the curriculum for the previous three years, to make sure she hadn't missed anything. An adviser person she'd been assigned said he'd make up a list and set her up with a Proficiency student to help her out if she had any problems, it shouldn't be too hard to get her settled. She hadn't heard back yet, but it  _was_  still only the first week.

Mum still thought it was a bit absurd she'd be taking an OWL-equivalent exam at twelve. But well, it was only for Charms, and she was an enormous cheater — she'd technically started studying Charms when she'd been, what, seven? That made five years, which was all the time Hogwarts students spent anyway. And, considering her education had been far more focused — it'd mostly been charms and some potions Mum had been teaching her, other forms of magic barely touched — and she'd been getting instruction one-on-one, which was inarguably better than the whole classroom thing... Yeah, Hazel didn't think it was that weird. Going through the  _whole_  curriculum in a year would be absurd, Hazel had just gotten a head start.

It did mean she was the youngest person in the class though. And, since this one was filled with teenagers — around fourteen, mostly — they weren't nearly as subtle about their dislike of her as the older students in her wandless method class. Like, okay, as in most classes, the students were divided into these little tables, they were assigned to that table, with a few other kids. Exactly how many went to a table varied by subject, but it was five in this one.

She just  _happened_  to get assigned to a table with some of the bitchiest girls she'd ever met. (And they  _were_  all girls, the instructor had seemingly attempted to sort by sex, only a couple were mixed.) There were all pretty, and apparently wealthy, though Hazel wasn't certain how Mum could tell, and just...annoying. They weren't too, she didn't know,  _direct_  about their awfulness. Just little sniping comments about childminders, or about Hazel's hair — her appearance in general, really, but it was her hair most often because, well,  _her hair_  — a few times even plain old racism. Which was weird, she'd been under the impression Beauxbatons and Aquitania in general was extremely diverse and generally tolerant, but apparently some people still considered Britons acceptable targets.

Though, there was a bit of additional awkwardness about the one Hazel had immediately labeled in her head as the leader (so much as such things had leaders). She was younger than the other three, having gotten into the class a year early — which made her only a year older than Hazel, so the comments about her being too much of a baby for this class were even stranger, though to be fair she never said those herself — all tiny and delicate, with that odd silvery hair despite  _not_  being a veela (Hazel had asked around just to confirm), deep blue eyes so wide and overlarge they almost seemed to be bulging out of her face. Artémisia Cѐcine was a pureblood (not that people here actually cared that much about that) from an absolutely ancient family — before they were Aquitanians they were Romans, and  _before that_  they were Etruscans, the family name predating the Republic. They had been nobility, more often than not the most powerful noble family in the nation, but Aquitania had abolished their aristocracy back in...sometime in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, Hazel couldn't remember anymore. No, instead they were just obscenely rich.

Come to think of it, that might be why Mum had assumed they were all wealthy. Whatever.

Arte, as the other girls called her, there was something going on with her. She was obviously a prissy bitch, it wasn't about that. She wore the same uniform as everyone else but, Hazel didn't know, she was too clean, too perfect, shoes to fingernails, she wasn't even sure how a notebook managed to look fancy, and were those  _bloody sapphires_ , what kind of parents gave sapphire earrings to a thirteen-year-old? And the way her nose would scrunch up, ever so slightly, if certain...well,  _most_  of the kids in their class got too close to her, as though she could smell the plebeian on them. But, sometimes, when she thought nobody was looking, she would just  _stare_  at Hazel, with an odd sort of frown narrowing her eyes, sometimes rubbing at her forehead. As though there was something confusing about Hazel, so confusing it was giving her a headache.

Whenever Hazel caught her, she'd immediately stop, give her that scrunchy-nose sneer, as though nothing untoward were happening. Well, Arte considered Hazel's presence here, perhaps even her very existence, to be untoward in itself, but.

It was very odd. Hazel had absolutely no idea what to think of it. So she tried not to think of it at all.

And her last class of the day was Potions. She'd been mildly surprised when she'd first walked into her Potions class — it was in a normal class hall, yes, but it was underground, separated from the outside by several doors, the walls and floor and ceilings solid black tile, the only light given off by these odd little fixtures, bundles of rippling crystal wrapped in gleaming silver wire, glowing a washed-out white. Down here there was, quite likely, no natural light at all. Mum said this just made sense: some potions were sensitive to light at various points in the brewing, sometimes enough the potion would be entirely ruined if brewed in any sun at all, in some cases even failing  _violently_. Certain especially sensitive potions had to be brewed in total darkness, the brewer relying entirely on touch and smell and sound. It wasn't  _all_  potions, but general courses like this one were usually held in rooms somehow isolated from sunlight, in preparation for those few they would be teaching.

And here Hazel had assumed Severus had held his own potions classes in gloomy dungeons because he was...well,  _Severus_. Turned out there was an actual good reason for it. Wasn't quite as gloomy here, with those rather pretty-looking little glowing thingies here and there, but still. Who'd have thought.

And at least there weren't the jars with the creepy things floating in them everywhere.  _That_  one must just be Severus being Severus.

Much like Potions back at Hogwarts, the class was divided into tiny little tables fit for two people each, who they'd be brewing with for the year. Apparently, having two students work together on a single cauldron was standard practice, at least for the lower years. Her partner was Camila Vilaró i García.(She insisted both surnames were necessary, which Hazel thought was weird, but nobody else had questioned it.) A year older than Hazel, the default age for this class, Camila had black hair kept short, fluttering about with the slightest motion, thick smiling lips and watery brown eyes, looking more than a touch bronzed, or maybe her skin was just naturally a few shades darker, didn't know or care. Both of Camila's parents were muggleborns, from the part of Aquitania Hazel still reflexively thought of as Spain, though Camila herself had grown up right here in the town just outside the Academy's walls.

Hazel still wasn't sure what she thought of Camila. She didn't  _dislike_  her, but more than that she couldn't say.

Though, Camila wasn't actually here yet, she tended not to show up until just before class started. Hazel spent the whole time trying not to stare at Evi, sitting at one of the tables in front of her. Eftychia Patrini didn't quite look like a real person, it was hard to say exactly why not. Despite this being her first year of proper schooling, she was maybe fourteen or so, with jet black hair in long waves, eyes a nearly black brown set into a round-cheeked face. The word "fair-skinned" didn't seem quite appropriate, she was so pale the contrast against her hair, her lips, the faint dusting of pink across her cheeks, palm of her hand and pads of her fingers, was sharply noticeable, all  _too_ pale. There was even a hint of blue around her eyes, the base of her throat, her wrists, the veins underneath peeking through. The girl looked like she hadn't seen a second of sun in her entire life.

Which, of course, she hadn't, being a vampire and all.

Something about Evi, Hazel didn't know, she just didn't look quite... Most of the time it wasn't obvious — Evi normally wore a scarf over her face, bulbous sunglasses, a floppy wide-brimmed hat, couldn't see a thing. But here, underground, all that was gone, set in a neat pile at a corner of her table, so it was more obvious. Not that Hazel was entirely sure what it was that so unsettled her. Evi just seemed too...perfect? Like, there wasn't a single blemish on any of her visible skin, no scars or calluses or anything, each tiny line of her face unnaturally symmetrical.  _Too_  perfect, real people didn't look like that, like she were a bloody statue, or an illusion or something.

Hazel couldn't say exactly why, but it made her uncomfortable. Creeping sense slithering down your spine, hairs at the back of your neck standing up, that kind of uncomfortable. Whenever Evi was in the room, even if she was bundled up so Hazel couldn't properly see her.

Which, in a way, she guessed just made sense, being a vampire and all. They weren't particularly  _evil_ , Hazel knew that, just people like anyone else, but their innate abilities made them  _very_  dangerous, should they choose to be.

She was aware the same could be said about lilin, including the part with the people who believed they were evil monsters, but still.

Fortunately, she was distracted soon enough, the thump of a book-laden bag dropping to the ground announcing Camila's appearance. Collapsing into her seat, she said, 'Ech, Henningsen is so  _boring_.' The words came out more as a moan than anything, Camila slumping against the table, an expression of despair half-hidden by her hair.

Hazel knew Henningsen was Camila's Transfiguration professor — they had different professors, so she couldn't say if this Henningsen was really all that boring. 'And now you get to listen to Fierro's droaning. Lucky you.'

'No,' drawn out longer than it really needed to be, 'don't remind me.' Her arms, which had been stretched limply across the table, came up to fold under her head. 'Henningsen and Fierro right in a row. I might just fall asleep.'

'I'll cover for you if you do. I'm not bad with misdirection charms. Think today is still just a lecture, anyway.'

Camila turned her head a bit so she could look up at Hazel, expression solemn, eyes wide and maybe just a touch watery. The repressed twitching of her lips gave it away, though. 'You, Hazel Potter, are a beautiful person and a true friend.'

She had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. So she just ticked an eyebrow up, staring down at the older girl.

Camila kept up the serious act for just a few seconds before springing upright — or partially upright, anyway, leaning on her hand propped up against the table. Smile going almost brilliant, she chirped, 'Oh! You know,  _Mama 'm digué_  that we can come by for dinner on Saturday, even stay the night,  _si vulguis_. This weekend work, to see the town?'

It took Hazel a moment to find herself again, blinking at Camila in surprise. It didn't help that part of it hadn't even been in French — Occitan? or maybe Catalan, Camila  _was_  supposedly trilingual...or maybe Spanish was the third one, Hazel didn't actually know. This wasn't a  _total_  surprise, she guessed, Camila had said she would show Hazel around town at some point. But, that had been a very vague suggestion, sometime in the future they should do that, nothing specific, with no real...immediacy? But there it was, even inviting Hazel over to her parents' house. It just seemed a bit...

Sudden, maybe? She meant, she and Camila had only known each other for a few days, and those few days were mostly just a handful of hours in Potions class. And, didn't Camila have friends she'd rather spend her weekend with? She  _was_  a local, after all, she should know at least some of the other locals. It was weird.

 _I hate to be the bearer of awkward news, but it's possible this might at least partially be a Girl-Who-Lived thing_.

Wait, really? But she wasn't even British though!

 _No, but her parents are muggleborns. The Death Eaters_ _ **were**_   _attempting what was basically a genocide — foreign muggleborns definitely followed what was going on. I was even well-known in my time._

Huh, wouldn't have figured that. She meant, she knew Mum had been a totally awesome badarse evil-person fighter, but she hadn't thought anyone outside of Britain would have been paying that much attention.

_It wasn't just that. Magical ability is heritable, sort of. A child is likely to have talent and power similar to their parents', though not necessarily, there are flukes. Point is, it was obvious I was a sorceress from an improbable young age. But I was a muggleborn. People payed attention simply for that reason._

Mum technically wasn't a muggleborn, though. She was a lilin, they didn't have muggleborns.

_Well, no, but nobody knew that. For all they knew, I was a muggleborn sorceress. At least in Britain, that hadn't happened since, well..._

_No_ , she meant, the Dark Lady Cromwell?  _That_  long ago?

_Yes, that long ago. Muggleborns tend to be normal, ordinary mages, no more or less powerful than average. Exceptionally powerful ones are very rare. Even all the way in Provence, muggleborns would have known of me. Granted, I was a bit surprised when I made that trip to France and foreign muggleborns knew me by name, I hadn't seen that coming._

_But anyway, it might have something to do with why Camila's parents are fine with having you over, and maybe why she suggested it in the first place. They likely knew about me, and thus about you, and likely told Camila about you growing up, so she might be showing you off to them. A little bit._

Oh, well... That's kinda...

_I'm not saying you shouldn't go. If you wanted to go before, you should. Besides, I'm only saying it's a possibility, and so you're warned if her parents act a little strange. It's certainly possible Camila is just that nice. I'd almost think it more likely — she is only thirteen, and I'm not certain this girl has a subtle bone in her body._

That was true, Hazel thought, giving the grinning girl a narrow-eyed look. From what she could tell so far, Camila's feelings did tend to be written all over her face, and she had a habit of blurting out whatever she was thinking. Even in the middle of lecture — on Tuesday Fierro had been startled out of a ramble for a few seconds by Camila randomly saying something about Potions terms being bloody impossible to spell. She'd expect Camila to be physically incapable of dissembling. So...it was really  _more_  likely Camila was just that nice.

Though, honestly, Hazel didn't find that prospect any less confusing. But, after another second of turning it over in her head, she shrugged. 'Sure, I guess, we can do that.'

Camila's smile twisted a little, shifting into more of a smirk. 'You guess?'

'I've just...' Hazel frowned as the truth of the thought struck her. 'I've just never really had a friend before. Something like this is a new one on me.'

It was almost impressive, how the seemingly eternal good cheer that always hung about Camila disappeared in an instant. Not really sure how to describe the expression that replaced it — "sad" didn't seem quite right, eyes too narrow, mouth too loose, but in the absence of anything better. 'What, really? Never?'

Hazel felt her face settle into a glare before she could stop it, as soon as she noticed it was there did her best to get rid of it. Just, there'd been a note of pity on Camila's voice. It was annoying.

_Some people are simply going to react that way when you tell them things like this. It's not really her fault._

She knew that. That's why she was  _trying_  to get rid of it. But it was still annoying. 'Sorry, erm. No, I don't think so, not really.'

Hazel could count on her fingers how many people she interacted with, in anything like a positive manner. She wasn't sure she'd call any of them  _friends_ , really. Mum, of course, but she was, well, her mum — but more than that, they were sharing a body, there weren't words in any language she knew to describe what exactly they were to each other. Andi and Ted, not friends, Dora neither, family didn't count. Susan didn't count either, she was only ever around because Andi was basically babysitting her, they tolerated each other's presence more than anything. Tracey... _sort of_ , Tracey might count, she guessed. Daphne, though, was just  _there_ , because she went everywhere Tracey did. Severus, of course, was Mum's friend, and probably rather Hazel didn't exist at all. Blaise and Hermione were really more her stalkers than anything, Hazel didn't even think she liked them. They were both their own particular sort of annoying. Wasn't sure she liked Tracey either, for that matter, just having her around to talk to was less boring than not.

Not that she knew whether she liked Camila at all either. She was...fine. But they also hadn't known each other that long. She could at least  _try_  this...making friends...thing. That had been why she'd started talking to Tracey in the first place, but she hadn't really known what she was doing, and Tracey was so damn shy she hadn't given Hazel much to work with. Camila definitely wasn't shy, and she hadn't been  _too_  annoying about...well, anything so far.

Hazel could at least  _try_.

And if Mum could stop feeling so guilty or depressed or whatever back there, that'd be great. It was distracting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabbie —  _Yes, this is Gabrielle Delacour. I aged her up a few years._
> 
> Dragí —  _Pronounced roughly "draw-_ _ **gee**_ " _, meant to be a nickname from Dragúlj (the "j" is silent), literally meaning_ gem  _in Slovene. Even his "real" name is a nickname, Dragí technically doesn't have a proper name. No wilderfolk do._
> 
> Cvétka —  _Pronounced roughly "_ _ **tsvate**_ _-kah". Not quite right, but the "v" sound in Slovene is really strange, close enough._
> 
> Beauxbatons uniform —  _What I have in my head is strongly based on an image I found way at the bottom of the Beauxbatons page on the wiki. For all practical purposes, it's identical._
> 
> The location of Beauxbatons —  _I read somewhere, I can't remember where, that JKR originally conceived Beauxbatons as being located somewhere in the Provence region of France, in the southeast bordering Italy, but later moved it to the Pyrenees, the mountain range that forms the border with Spain in the southwest. In pre-Statute Europe, and we know from the history of the Triwizard Tournament Beauxbatons is at least a thousand years old, it makes_ _ **far**_   _more sense for it to be in Provence. Once upon a time, the southeast of France was a centre of European culture, especially in the arts. If there was going to be a school of magic anywhere in Occitania I'd expect it to be around there. (Or in Barcelona, which is part of the same magical nation in my headcanon, but I'm getting ahead of myself.) I presume JKR moved it to the Pyrenees because it was more defensible, more isolated from muggle interlopers, but it doesn't really make sense for the school to be there, looking at it from an historical ethno-linguistic perspective, not to even get started on the cultural and economic incentives of the time. Besides, while foreigners immediately think of the lowlands along the Mediterranean when we think of Provence, the region also includes the southern portion of the French Alps. I decided to put the thing somewhere in Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, specifically in the hills near Lake Castillon, as a suitable balance to the weight of various pressures that would have influenced the formation of the school around a thousand years ago. Go ahead and do a google image search if you like, the whole area is very pretty, especially the Verdon Gorge. And I've babbled about this far too long._
> 
> Artémisia Cѐcine —  _If anyone is thinking that surname seems familiar, it's not your imagination. By the French spelling (Cæciné), the family was mentioned several times in TLG (particularly as distant relatives of both the Evanses and the Lovegoods), one member having a minor appearance in chapter 27._
> 
> [Eftychia Patrini, who went by Evi] —  _The name, pronounced something like "eff-tee-_ _ **hee**_ _-ah pah-tree-_ _ **nee**_ "  _(Greek: Ευτυχία Ρατρινή), isn't actually a first-last name thing. Vampires don't technically have surnames, instead named for where their family/community lives. "Patrini" is a native word for a woman from Patras (Greek: Ρατρα), a city in western Greece. The nickname is also Greek (Ευη), just much easier to pronounce._
> 
> [ _Mama 'm digué...si vulguis_ ] — " _Mom told me...if you want." This is supposed to be Catalan, I_ _ **think**_   _I got it right, but I suspect Occitan would be much the same, if spelled differently._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Hey, still exist. Slightly longer than I was hoping I would take, but I'm not back into the swing of things yet. Oh well._
> 
>  
> 
> _Anyway, random introduction stuff, woo. I did end up cutting this chapter rather shorter than I'd intended. There was going to be an interaction with Evi and a minor scene in the veela/lilin dorm, but I've decided to move both to later chapters. Partially so I could have an update out earlier, partially so the latter scene could be fused with another one I have planned, for efficiency's sake._
> 
>  
> 
> _Should be several short chapters coming up, mostly letters to/from Hazel, with a couple other things here and there. Them being short should mean a few rapid-fire updates, hopefully. I plan to move through the next two years, and from there the end of the fic...comparatively quickly. But this is me, and there are a few important things to hit, so we'll see how that goes._
> 
>  
> 
> _Thanks for reading,_  
>  ~Wings


	12. Correspondence, Autumn 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily and Severus are adorable. There's other stuff too, I just think they're adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So, this chapter and the next were posted on FFN ages ago, and I just forgot to put them up here. Uh...whoops?_

>   
>  Andi—  
>  You really don't have to worry about me. I'm fine. It's much better here than back at Hogwarts. Nobody stares at me for existing, for one thing. Well, okay, some people do, but that's just because of the things I can do, not because I'm super special wizard jesus. It's kind of nice being not normal I guess, but unimportant maybe. I like people not caring about me. That sounds bad, but you know what I mean.  
>  No, classes aren't too hard. Most of them are still too easy actually, but at least they're less boring than they were at Hogwarts. It has only been a week, maybe they'll get better, I don't know. The lilin and veela can be awkward to deal with but I think that's mostly on my end. I was raised human you see, there's a lot of things I don't know, it just makes me uncomfortable talking to them sometimes. But it's fine, I can deal with it.  
>  Some of the other kids are awful, but some aren't. Dragui and Cvetka are fascinating. There's this one girl, Camila, I even went over to her parents' house one day already. (We didn't run off anywhere, they live here in town.) She's really nice, almost confusingly nice, like I'm not sure why someone I just met is being this nice to me. She's fun though, so I'm just trying not to think about it. She's not a bad potions partner either. I mean, she can't quite keep up with me, but I don't have to hold her hand either. And you know how good I am with potions, so she's obviously not an idiot either.  
>  So, everything is fine. There's really nothing to worry about. I know that's not going to stop you from worrying, I figure that's just a mum thing, but I thought I'd say it anyway.  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Hazel—  
>  I'm told you're doing well at Beauxbatons. If you ever feel like altering our standard response to any inquiries on the subject, send me an owl and we'll talk it over.  
>  There are a number of votes and motions and whatnot coming up in the Wizengamot, but only one of them is of any real import. The DLE has worked up a new Muggle Protection Authorisation, and I'm feeling rather ambivalent about it. In some ways, it is a significant improvement — for example, any use of harmful magic on muggles has been reclassified as a crime against the state, the reasoning being the inherent threat to Secrecy involved, making it far harder for people to squirm their way out of a proper conviction.  
>  In other ways, I'm not so sure. Many of the rules involving those spheres of our lives where magic and mundane overlap are far more strict, making it far more likely innocent people, while doing no harm, may unintentionally break the law, just going about their daily lives. By the letter of the law, it may be necessary to police and perhaps even obliviate the families of muggleborns, extended families especially. In an odd overreach that I can only assume is a mistake in the wording, any magical alteration of any muggle-manufactured goods would be made illegal.  Any. The intent — to prevent potentially harmful enchantments from harming unknowing muggles, or harmless ones threatening Secrecy — is noble, but I don't think Weasley or anyone else arguing for it realises the wider consequences of such a law. People use magically-altered muggle goods every day, nobody second-guesses it. Enforcing this law is almost impossible, and successfully doing so would alter our way of life, and not in a direction I think beneficial.  
>  With the way the votes are falling right now, I'm not certain it will pass. House Potter having the influence we do, it's very possible we could swing this one either way. I'll need your opinion on what you would prefer. I have more information I can send you if you like.  
>  Also, that time of the year is coming up again. I have a good stack of contracts here that will need your signature by the end of next month. If we could meet anytime before perhaps the twentieth of October, we'll get that taken care of.  
>  If there's anything new you'd like me to be working on, say the word.  
>  —Holly  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Holly—  
>  You can be somewhat less politic about how uncomfortable I was at Hogwarts, if you like. From what I've read and what I've been hearing they haven't quite gotten the message they drove me out by being awful. Those letters into the Prophet lately, annoying self-righteous shites.  
>  About the muggle protection thing, you'd know better than me. That does sound really dumb, the bit about magic on muggle-made things, sounds like they need to start over. If it's worth risking killing it over that, maybe do. Though, can't just outright vote against it — can't have people thinking we're against muggles being protected. If it were me, I think I'd abstain, but while I was doing it do a little ramble about how this is people going too far in an effort to congratulate themselves about what good moral people they are for caring about the poor helpless muggles. If that's not enough to kill it, oh well.  
>  Of course, if it were me, I'd be standing up insulting everyone else in the room every damn day. There's a reason I have you in there, and it's not because I'm so short.  
>  For the paperwork, any free weekend you have to come down here is fine. We can go out into the town whenever we like, but I have a lot of classes and assignments and such, so some weekend is best.  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  I swear, I am going to curse this man one day.  
>  —S
> 
> Is he that bad? I know hardly anything about him.  
>  —L
> 
> He's frustrating. While some of his supposed exploits read as nothing but self-indulgent fiction, it is clear he is not as incompetent as he seems. From what I can tell, his grasp of practical self-defence is as thorough as any could expect, and it has been some time since we have had someone in his post with anything near his understanding of the Dark Arts.  
>  —S
> 
> And that's frustrating, is it?  
>  —L
> 
> It's the juxtaposition against how he presents himself that's frustrating. No, that's not quite right. The frustrating thing is I can't tell whether it's all an act. One moment, he seems exactly what one might expect of a former Ravenclaw specialising in practical defence: so thoroughly knowledgeable as to seem almost over-informed, every inch competence and practised self-possession. The next, he seems exactly what one might expect of a celebrity: overly self-indulgent, obsessed with appearance and image, friendly to the point of and sometimes well into flirtatiousness. It's frustrating.  
>  —S
> 
> Wait, flirtatiousness? Oh, please tell me you know that from personal experience.  
>  —L
> 
> He is only subtle about it some of the time.  
>  —S
> 
> Sounds like you've been a target of this flirtatiousness of his quite a lot.  
>  —L
> 
> To my mortification, yes.  
>  —S
> 
> It sounds to me like you're taking the enigma that is Gilderoy Lockhart far too seriously. Almost personally, you might say. You know what this means, of course.  
>  —L
> 
> I'm sure whatever you have in mind will be equally frustrating and mortifying.  
>  —S
> 
> You, my dear, need to get laid.  
>  —L
> 
> Something like that was about what I was expecting, yes.  
>  —S
> 
> Really, how long has it been? And none of your self-deprecating deflecting, you know I know when you're lying to me.  
>  —L
> 
> Oh, and it doesn't count if you have to pay for it. Just so you know.  
>  —L
> 
> Sometimes, Lily, I really, truly hate you.  
>  —S
> 
> No, you don't.  
>  —L
> 
> No, but I like to say it sometimes anyway.  
>  —S
> 
> I know. It's kinda adorable.  
>  —L
> 
> Lily, what did we say about using that word?  
>  —S
> 
> You're too far away to curse me.  
>  —L
> 
> You're impossible.  
>  —S
> 
> And you need to get laid. Stop changing the subject.  
>  —L
> 
> I know any sort of exchange with other people that doesn't involve insults or curses is outside of your comfort zone, but this is how we grow as people, Severus.  
>  —L
> 
> I would say I am shocked you actually wrote that, but I have been thoroughly desensitised by now. I don't think there's anything you can do that will even faze me anymore.  
>  —S
> 
> I think you might be underestimating me there. I'm almost offended.  
>  —L
> 
> Do you have anything that can top coming back from the dead?  
>  —S
> 
> That's what I thought.  
>  —S
> 
> That wasn't a telling silence, Hazel was meeting with a friend. But, yeah, good point, I might have outdone myself with that one. But you're changing the subject again.  
>  —L
> 
> The subject is pointless. Even were I so desperate to "get laid", as you insist on putting it, the problem then becomes identifying a willing partner. Especially as I am told prostitutes are unacceptable.  
>  —S
> 
> Don't even think about suggesting Lockhart. You're not as funny as you think you are.  
>  —S
> 
> I'm exactly as funny as I think I am. But, fine, fine, no Lockhart. There's always Vector, though.  
>  —L
> 
> If I pretend that had any basis in reality, will you finally leave it be?  
>  —S
> 
> Any basis in reality? Please, Sev, why do you think she keeps being all weird around you?  
>  —L
> 
> How the hell should I know? The only real experience I have with the female species is from my mother, Narcissa, and you, and none of you are exactly representative. Maybe she's "being all weird around" me because she's just weird.  
>  —S
> 
> That's one option, certainly. You know what another one is?  
>  —L
> 
> If it's a Warbeck reference, I'll burn this notebook.  
>  —S
> 
> Still think your hatred for that song is completely irrational.  
>  —L
> 
> You haven't gotten disgustingly sappy letters from idiotic children quoting the insipid thing.  
>  —S
> 
> True. Save the next one you get, please. There are no words for my curiosity.  
>  —L
> 
> But, fine, I can drop it. For now, anyway, we'll definitely be revisiting this later.  
>  —L
> 
> I still cannot comprehend why you've always been more invested in my own love life, or lack thereof, than I am.  
>  —S
> 
> Someone has to be. If you're not going to look out for your own happiness, I should at least try.  
>  —L
> 
> Also, you're just fun to tease.  
>  —L
> 
> Your altruism and charity know no bounds.  
>  —S
> 
> I know. Aren't you just so lucky to have someone as amazing as me looking out for you?  
>  —L
> 
> I feel truly blessed.  
>  —S  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Holly—  
>  I just read the article in the Prophet. You do have a way with words, don't you? It was so beautiful I think I almost cried.  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Hazel—  
>  Ted did help me write it, so I can't take all the credit. But, thank you for the sentiment.  
>  See you on Sunday.  
>  —Holly  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Hermione—  
>  I hope you don't mind I sent Olwen instead of yours. Thought the poor thing could use a couple days of rest before I send him back.  
>  And yes, that was supposed to be me subtly saying your letter was too bloody long. You need to learn to edit yourself, Hermione. I feel bad for your professors, if they have to deal with that kind of deluge all the time. Just, damn.  
>  Anyway, Beauxbatons is fine. Better than Hogwarts, in my opinion. It's bigger, a lot bigger, so they can afford rather more options as far as subjects go. Yes, they do let you test into more advanced courses, and yes, I did. I'm in third-year Potions, fourth-year Charms, and a Mastery-level course in wandless magic. But I'm in second-year Transfiguration, and first-year Runes and Divination (which are mostly taken by second-years, but they're the first in their series, so they're just called that). Also taking an Aquitanian literature course, and another on magical Europe just in general I guess. Not really history, but just how things are right now, you know. I suppose I could run down everything we're working on in all of them, but that'd make my reply nearly as long as your initial letter, and I'm already doing plenty of writing, that'll just make my hand cramp up. I'll give you my textbooks when I'm done with them, how about that. They are in French, though.  
>  I'm not taking Defence at all this term — there is a theory seminar for second years, but I tested out of it — so I really can't compare what I'm doing against what you're learning with Lockhart. I don't know anything about the bloke, but he sounds interesting enough. Seems like a bit of a fop, but from what I can tell he might actually know what he's talking about, so I'll take your word for it.  
>  It also sounds like you might be crushing on him but, hey, he's smart and almost too pretty, if there is such a thing, there are worse people. I mean, if you started ranting at me about Draco, I might have to ask Severus to check for potions or something.  
>  The stuff about Blaise and Daphne, I'm sure you're imagining it. I don't think Daphne has much of an opinion of you either way and in all honesty I get the feeling Blaise likes you more than I do. No offence, just saying. Yes, they're cold and sarcastic Slytherins but that's just what they're like, they don't mean anything by it. Don't think about it too much.  
>  I realise I may as well suggest you stop breathing. I'm just saying.  
>  The stuff about the other Gryffindors, fuck them. Honestly I don't see why you care what they think of you. If you want to keep being friends with Tracey, and Blaise and Daphne once you get this idea out of your head they hate you for no reason, I don't really see how that should be their business. If they're going to be shite about it, sounds like they're shite people. And I'm not sure why you should care what shite people have to say. Might just be me though.  
>  About the muggle protection thing, if I were a more touchy person I might be offended. Perhaps you should do more research on the thing and what Holly actually said before assuming I'm an evil racist bitch or whatever. I know you didn't say I am, but that is what you implied.  
>  You really have to work on this jumping to conclusions problem you have, Hermione. One day you're going to say something you'll wish you could take back.  
>  That's all I can think of to say right now. I'll be awaiting what I'm sure will be another owl-exhausting monster of a reply.  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Blaise—  
>  I'm guessing Rossana Zabini would be a cousin of yours.  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Hazel—  
>  Of course. She's a bit older than me, and neither of us live with the clan, so I think I've only met Rossana a couple times. Why?  
>  —Blaise  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Blaise—  
>  Is there any way you could get her to leave me the fuck alone?  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Hazel—  
>  I find myself doubting you've ever actually met any of my cousins. If you had, you would know there is no power on earth capable of stopping them from doing whatever they bloody well feel like.  
>  —Blaise  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Blaise—  
>  I'm really starting to dislike you Zabinis.  
>  —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Hazel—  
>  Join the club. I understand they have hats.  
>  —Blaise  
> 

* * *

>   
>  Canopus—  
>  Oh, you are a nosey little thing! If you truly wish to know from where Bella learned such distasteful habits, you would have to ask your great-aunt Cassie. She did die last year, but you did say you were looking for excuses to practise spiritual necromancy. Just keep in mind to take whatever she might say with a healthy degree of skepticism — conjured spirits aren't known for being especially straight-forward, and Cassie was quite a character in life to begin with.  
>  I can start approaching the Lady Monroe on your behalf, if that is what you wish. She and my husband don't have the best relationship, but she might be willing to listen to me where she wouldn't him, if I'm careful. Or lucky enough to catch her in a good mood. The Ní Ailbhe girl would be much easier to make contact with, but I would suggest we at least write the Mistress of her House first, just as a courtesy.  
>  Lucius and I have tracked down all the supplies you needed, including the sample we discussed, but there will be a delay getting it all to you. This Broker friends of yours didn't have any of the chalk at all — he gave me a rather queer look when I said, yes, it must be bone of thestral, but he's smart enough to not ask after it — and he didn't have enough unicorn blood of acceptable quality. We are sending you about a quart, but he promised he could get us the rest in a little under a month. As for the chalk, I talked to a friend of mine, and he will be able to get me some in about a week. He did seem a mite concerned over exactly what I wanted it for, but he agreed easily enough. And he is discreet, don't worry.  
>  I will have to take you at your word that Lockhart is more than he appears. He always seemed a right fraud to me, but I honestly never payed him much mind.  
>  —NBM

* * *

> Cissa—  
> Aunt Cassie told me to remind you of the summer of '76. She didn't tell me exactly what it is I'm reminding you of, but I can only assume it's dreadfully embarrassing.  
> If you think it more prudent, we can wait to move on Monroe until after I return. Having me on hand to prove your intentions might be helpful. But, it is your call. You have more experience dealing with Noble House politics than I do, do what you think is best. Enclosed is an attempt at a letter of introduction, intended for the head of Clan Ailbhe. There are a couple placeholders — for the life of me, I can't remember the proper manner of address for the head of a Gaelic clan, and the library was less than helpful.  
> Forget about the unicorn blood, I can get the balance myself sooner than that. Thank you for finding everything. Not exactly common supplies I need, are they?  
> This friend of yours wouldn't happen to be a Master of Potions named Severus Snape? On my way out to trade for some blood last night, I caught sight of him walking back from the direction of the thestral paddock, carrying a sizeable bag and looking rather more disheveled than usual. I vaguely remember something about him having been a Death Eater — I believe my father personally trained him in high ritual and blood magic, in fact — but I confess I don't know much more about him than that.  
> I'm not surprised one could underestimate Lockhart. He does seem a bit of a popinjay, and I'm not entirely convinced he's not, but that doesn't mean his supposed talents and accomplishments aren't to be taken at face-value. He's not an especially powerful wizard, but he does know what he's talking about — students have been trying to trip him up with questions, and he invariably has an excellent response, more often than not wrapped up in something humorous or salacious, or both. I suspect he might very well be quite good at what he does.  
> In the attached package, you will find something I stumbled across in a hidden room in the castle, an historical artefact of some considerable value. I have removed all curses bound to it — and that was no small feat, by the way. I have little use for the thing, so I'm giving it to you. Do with it as you wish.  
> —Canopus  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dragui and Cvetka] —  _Hazel is guessing how to spell their names, and guessed slightly wrong._
> 
> [Holly] —  _This is Holly Glanwvyl, the person Andi picked to vote for Hazel in the Wizengamot and manage most of the House's affairs. I think she's only been mentioned once, and that just in passing._
> 
> [great-aunt Cassie] —  _This would be Cassiopeia Black, the Black sisters' grandfather's sister. She was the last Lady Black, her death in '91 leaving the title vacant._
> 
> [The Ní Ailbhe girl] —  _For those who've read my previous fics, this is Síomha Ní Ailbhe, a recurring minor character._
> 
> NBM —  _Narcissa Black Malfoy_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Yes, I do realise I just updated yesterday. It's a very short chapter, by my standards, and I didn't have work today. It also helps I'd already written the letters between Narcissa and Canopus months ago._
> 
>  
> 
> _And no, by the way, I'm not telling you who Canopus is. Many of you will probably guess correctly anyway._
> 
>  
> 
> _Thanks for reading,_  
>  ~Wings


	13. Oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you do it too much, telling someone you're going to murder them stops being threatening.

>   
> Cissa—  
> Everything is prepared. I cast a few auguries, coming up with a far sooner date than I'd expected. I see little point in waiting for another alignment in the spring, so I'll be performing the ritual as soon as possible.  
> There's a café in Charing, at the corner of Diagon and Penning. Meet me there, midmorning five days from now.  
> —Canopus  
> 

* * *

>   
> Canopus—  
> I'll be there. How will I recognise you?  
> —NBM  
> 

* * *

>   
> Cissa—  
> Good point, hadn't thought of that. Getting ahead of myself a little, it seems. I'll conjure myself up a purple scarf. I should be plenty conspicuous.  
> —Canopus  
> 

* * *

>   
> Hazel—  
> I hope you'll forgive the informality, given we've never actually spoken before. My son speaks of you enough I almost feel I know you personally.  
> I have news of great import, and it cannot wait, urgent enough I decided to contact you directly. While your unexpected circumstances may not be considered newsworthy on the Continent, it is not so here in Britain. Only the discretion of the staff at Beauxbatons has prevented the news spreading. Now, finally, someone talked. I don't know who, but I am all but certain the damn Prophet has it. I haven't gotten explicit confirmation, but why else would a reporter come asking me questions about you? Very odd questions at that.  
> I expect the story to break any day now. I'll do what I can to hold the Wizengamot back from overreacting too much, so far as I can without making myself and my son targets.  
> —Mirabella  
> 

* * *

>   
> Blaise—  
> Thank your mum for the warning for me. I tried writing her a letter, but it felt weird using her first name, and I have no idea how I'm supposed to address a letter to bloody lilin royalty.  
> —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
> Hazel—  
> Warning for what? I did send it, but it felt weird not having any idea what I'm talking about.  
> Also? You're adorable. And apparently I don't count as "bloody lilin royalty" which, fine, you're still adorable.  
> —Blaise  
> 

* * *

> **Creature Blood in House Potter**  
>  Girl-Who-Lived Attending Beauxbatons as Lilin

Hazel read only the headline. She crumpled up her internationally-delivered copy of The Daily Prophet, then set it aflame without bothering to reach for her wand. (The rest of their sept that'd shown up for dinner barely blinked this time, used to her by now.) She didn't need to read the article — she knew from the very first word exactly where it was going.

* * *

Albus tore through the article like a man possessed, feeling with every word his stomach sink ever lower, his blood turn ever colder.

* * *

>   
> I feel I should inform you Albus is being a massive cunt.  
> —S
> 
> More than usual, you mean?  
> —L
> 
> A bit. I might have cursed him about twenty minutes ago.  
> —S
> 
> Oh my god, Severus.  
> —L
> 
> He'll live. It's fine.  
> —S
> 
> What the fuck did he do? I mean, you'd gone this long without cursing him...  
> —L
> 
> I've stopped myself by a hair more times than I can count. But no, he didn't do anything.  
> —S
> 
> Aw, Sev. I didn't know you cared.  
> —L
> 
> Whatever it is you're thinking, I'm sure I'm going to hate it.  
> —S
> 
> He said something awful about Hazel, didn't he? That's so sweet.  
> —L
> 
> Hardly. It wasn't even truly about Hazel. He remembers the pregnancy, you see. He was speculating aloud you might have been involved in some nefarious lilin plot to infiltrate the Wizengamot.  
> —S
> 
> He said something awful about me in the process, I take it. Still sweet, but less unexpected, I guess.  
> —L
> 
> The old berk tries to use your memory to guilt me into line at every opportunity, but then has the gall to insult you to my face. It's almost breathtaking, sometimes.  
> —S
> 
> Really, Dumbledore, so silly. Hasn't he learned by now I've owned your soul since we were six?  
> —L
> 
> I know I shouldn't leave that sort of comment unanswered, but I know you'll persist in your self-aggrandising lunacy no matter what I say.  
> —S
> 
> Love you too, Sev.  
> —L
> 
> Speaking of love, have you fucked Vector yet?  
> —L
> 
> I know I shouldn't leave that sort of comment unanswered...  
> —S  
> 

* * *

>   
> Hazel—  
> I need you to confirm for me whether the recent news is true or not before I can plan a response.  
> —Holly  
> 

* * *

>   
> Hazel—  
> Oh. Warning for that. Got it.  
> Expect letters from the girls. They're being silly.  
> —Blaise  
> 

* * *

>   
> Holly—  
> It's true. I mean, yes, the part about me being a lilin is true. I'm sure there was all kinds of wild speculation in there presented as fact, can't say what since I didn't read it.  
> I didn't know myself until partway through my first year at Hogwarts, and I honestly have no idea how it happened. I mean, there's no such thing as a half-lilin, and I definitely am one, so my parents would have had to have been lilin. But my father was pureblood, his parents purebloods back centuries, and my mother was muggleborn. I have no more idea what's going on than anyone else.  
> I don't know if that helps, but it's all I got.  
> —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
> Hermione—  
> I'm really not the person to ask. I didn't even find out I'm a lilin until about a year ago now, and I haven't learned all that much about them since. You have Blaise right there, ask him all those questions, he might actually have answers.  
> But I can say my motivations in starting to talk to you in the first place did not include some secret desire to have my wicked way with you and suck out your soul, or whatever the hell it is those books say, I wouldn't know. Blaise, well, I can't speak to the first part, besides perhaps pointing out there's this whole puberty thing that hasn't happened yet, but I'm pretty sure he prefers you, you know, alive?  
> Just because something's in a book doesn't make it true. I mean, how long have you known me and Blaise now? You might want to try weighing your personal experience against the xenophobic nonsense some old shite centuries ago vomited all over a page. Just a thought.  
> Kind of funny, when you think about it. Just a few weeks ago, you were the one accusing me of racism — because, ironically, my proxy didn't vote for a racist law with an Orwellian name. Now here you are, quoting some twat saying I must be an evil soulless monster just because of who my parents were. That's some impressive hypocrisy right there, Hermione.  
> You haven't offended me, I'm harder to offend than that. I'm just saying, might want to watch this jumping-to-conclusions problem you have, if only just for talking to people way easier to offend than me.  
> —Hazel  
> 

* * *

>   
> Tracey (go ahead and show this to Daphne too)—  
> Yes, my being a lilin (it's true) is why Blaise was all creepy at me for a bit there last year, and why he forced his friendship at me.  
> Yes, it was Blaise who told me in the first place. How the hell did you guess that?  
> This one's for Daphne: I'm pretty sure my succession is still valid. My father did go out of his way to make sure I was legally his heir. As far as I'm aware, there's no rule against a lilin inheriting a Noble House. They can't start one, that's why Lady Zabini technically isn't a lady, but I'm pretty sure they can inherit one that already exists. I wouldn't be surprised if someone in the Wizengamot tries to change that soon, though.  
> Oh, by "my father" I meant James, in case that wasn't obvious. I keep forgetting I might have to clarify that for people now. I mean, he was in every way that means anything, even if I don't really remember him at all, it's completely absurd to me that people are going to say I'm not his anymore because now it turns out I didn't grow out of his sperm. Which was always a thing before, people just didn't know it's a thing, but for some reason that matters, and I really don't understand why. It's so dumb.  
> Anyway, also yes, it is part of why I decided to transfer to Beauxbatons. Not all of it, but part of it. You might have noticed I didn't have a very good first year. When people found out, which was inevitable, though it would have taken longer if I'd stayed, it would only get even worse. Beauxbatons is perfectly cool with lilin, they even have their own dorm, nobody barely gives it a second thought. And not just the school, everyone around here, really. Camila's parents didn't hesitate at all about me sleeping over, a "dark creature" unsupervised in their daughter's room. Though, they are muggleborns, so maybe they shouldn't count. Still.  
> I mean, just imagine how your grandfather would react if we were still sharing a room. Yeah, there's just much less to worry about over here.  
> Why would I not want to be friends anymore? Nothing's changed on my end. I understand your family (both of your families, actually) might be awful about it, but that really affects you more than me. Sort of bitchy of me to put it that way, but it is what it is. I'm good if you're good.  
> I'll have to ask Andi and Ted about Christmas. Ted is muggleborn, so.  
> —Hazel  
> 

* * *

When Narcissa walked into the little café, it was as the very picture of aristocratic grace and self-possession. She made sure of it. It was a work of some effort to keep her face impassive and her posture impressive, her gait smooth and steady. Normally, she needn't any thought at all, habit branded into her over a childhood of unending habituation, but she was rather more...unsettled than usual.

The gaping stares fixed on her at least managed to distract her from her own nervousness somewhat. It seemed nobody, not staff and not patron, had expected to ever see anyone like her here. Not entirely unreasonable, of course — this place was...well, it fell rather short of her usual standards, she'd leave it at that. But she'd long gotten used to people staring at her, she found herself more amused than anything. Until she snapped back to what she was doing here, and the idle warmth abruptly freezed back into anxiety.

Standing just a few steps in from the doorway, ignoring the looks she was getting, the frantic near-flailing of one of the waitstaff making for her, she scanned the few occupants of the rundown café. It wasn't a very large place, the rickety, randomly-placed tables probably not even numbering a dozen, so the woman hadn't even reached Narcissa yet when she spotted h—

She blinked, her lips parting just slightly before she caught herself. That... No, that couldn't be... She meant, she was supposed to be— Canopus was a boy. A young man, really, but definitely male. But, that...

Sitting at one of the tiny, two-person tables, squirreled near a back corner, was an unnervingly... _familiar_ -looking girl. Looked to be, perhaps, fifteen years old, though her guess could be a little off — with her features half-hidden behind a curtain of curly black hair, it was hard to tell. She was wearing casual winter robes of an almost appallingly simple cut, a pale blue lined with gold, though they didn't seem to sit quite right on her. Almost as though tailored, but tailored badly. (Or, perhaps, conjured by someone who didn't know what they were doing well enough to get the measurements exactly right.) There was something vaguely familiar about her, unsettlingly familiar, something in the sharp curve of her cheek, the form of her lips, enough Narcissa might have noted her anyway.

Even without the scarf wound about her neck, draping over her chest, a deep, royal purple lined here and there with gleaming silver.

Shaking herself — internally, of course, not a hair twitched — Narcissa forced her feet to move again. If a step hitched here or there, if her eyes were narrowed in the slightest of frowns, well, she couldn't really help that at the moment. She was perhaps two steps away from the empty chair when the girl glanced up from the book Narcissa could now see spread open on the table, head tilting enough her hair fell back, and—

Narcissa's heart jumped into her throat, a hard single kick, freezing in place as the skin of her arms and neck tingled.

_Bella_.

Except, of course, it wasn't Bella. It was the eyes that drew Narcissa out of it first, the corners slightly too rounded, the colour a deep, vibrant blue, so similar yet so different. As her heart sank back to its proper place, as she started breathing again, she saw that, while the girl looked enough like Bella for her momentary upset to be perfectly understandable, she looked different enough she couldn't really be mistaken for her. The nose was all wrong, the slope of her brow. Similar, yes, but not the same.

The girl nodded at her, glanced to the empty chair. Her voice flat, cool, she said, 'Have a seat, Cissa.'

Oh, thank Myrddin, she didn't sound like Bella at all. Not even really like...well, her father, she supposed, yes. Good, that was good. Narcissa felt at this rate it wouldn't take much before she had a heart attack. Drawing a long breath through her nose, she took the last few steps, and smoothly settled herself in the waiting chair. Perhaps somewhat less smoothly than she would like — really, she was pleased she'd managed to not collapse so far. She hesitated for a moment, tongue feeling all too dry and clumsy, before saying, 'Forgive me, I'm a little taken aback at the moment. You're not quite what I expected.'

'Believe me, I understand completely.' In a few quick, easy motions, the girl first poured a glass of ice water from a pitcher, filled a cup with coffee from a steaming pot. The faint glow covered by glass and porcelain, the girl drew runes into the surface of the table, one, another, another. Just before they collapsed, the paling springing into existence with a subtle lurch, Narcissa caught enough to make out it was a rather thorough privacy charm. Sliding the glass and cup toward Narcissa, the girl muttered, 'I can't imagine it'll take more getting used to for you than it will for me.'

'It was unintentional, then.' Narcissa couldn't help a faint pinch of disgust at the thought of actually drinking the coffee, but drew it toward herself anyway. It wouldn't do to be rude, after all. Especially considering who exactly had poured the thing. She didn't expect any response to be as...profound as she might ordinarily have feared, now well into the process of assuming the identity of her neph–  _niece_  — even ignoring that, their previous conversations had muted the worst of her concerns in any case — but there was no sense playing with fire. Honey would make it tolerable. Hopefully.

The girl let out a huff, and... Was she  _pouting?_  Well, it was obvious that  _was_  what she was doing, just, the juxtaposition of who this was and the fact she was wearing that particular expression was so surreal Narcissa could hardly process it. ' _Yes_ , it was unintentional. Apparently, when using a pair of samples from sources of opposite sexes as a seed, one must tailor the ritual to favour one sex over the other. In the absence of such measures, it seems the odds are fifty-fifty. The only word that seems appropriate is,  _oops_.'

Narcissa  _almost_  snorted. She didn't, of course, but it was a near thing. Struggling for words for a moment, then struggling to hold back a wince at a sip of the strong, bitter coffee, she finally said, 'I don't suppose it can be corrected.'

'It could. I'm sure you're aware blood alchemy rituals exist to change a person's sex. However, even if we could find someone of appropriate skill and discretion to do it for me — such a ritual would be far too complex for me to perform on myself — it would be a long, involved, uncomfortable process.' The girl raised her shoulders, dropped them in a soft, apathetic shrug. 'I've decided to just accept it and move on.'

'If that's your decision.' It didn't make any difference to Narcissa, she'd just been surprised. If she were perfectly honest, it was probably better — the matriarchal houses could fall behind them pretty easily if they played it right, and it was more in line with House Black tradition anyway. They hadn't been matriarchal for some centuries, but they had been originally, was the point. Also, this way it was far less likely they'd have to worry about the Lestranges poking their noses in, she'd been wondering about that.

Come to think of it, she thought she might still have some of Bella's things packed away somewhere. It was hard to tell for sure, seated with a table in the way, but she couldn't be that far off...

'Though, you'll need a different name, I suppose.'

She winced. 'I was thinking of going with Carina. But it's not just the name, all of the documentation and letters and the like we'd started on will have to be redone as well. And it will take some...adjustment, before I'm properly presentable.'

Narcissa ticked up a questioning eyebrow. It was obvious  _Carina_  certainly couldn't conjure her own clothes, but most people didn't do that for most any purpose anyway. She was slouching a bit, true, but from memories she'd seen that was out of character anyway, she'd assumed that was a conscious indulgence, a transient mood. It didn't necessarily mean—

And Carina gave her a look, sharp enough Narcissa nearly jumped. 'Remember, I was not raised in the Noble Houses. I did manage to learn to emulate good breeding, but I learned only from observation, a few pointers here and there from Andy.' Lord Candidus Malfoy, she decided after a second, Lucius's grandfather. She knew they'd been...well, perhaps "close" wasn't the right word, but something not entirely unlike that. 'And even by the end, I know I still made a fool of myself now and again, but I could  _mostly_  properly comport myself.  _As a man_. I have absolutely no idea how to do it as a woman.'

...Oh. Well. That was a very good point, actually. 'True. You should be able to avoid any formal appearance until the summer, at least, and that should be more than enough time. The documentation we should get settled before the year is out. There are a couple things we can sort today, though.'

Carina raised an eyebrow, sipped at her coffee. She didn't even twitch, Narcissa couldn't imagine how she could drink this trash, it was awful. 'Oh?'

Despite her better judgement, Narcissa felt her lips pull into a smirk.

* * *

'You realise I'm going to murder you, of course.'

Narcissa just smiled. The words themselves, how smooth and matter-of-fact their delivery, were threatening enough, but she knew Carina didn't mean them — her plans still relied on Narcissa's cooperation, if for no other reason. And from what she could tell, Carina was far less volatile, far less dangerous to just be near than was...well, her father. She wouldn't want to make her  _too_  angry, of course, but this should still be far under the threshold where she started risking her life. It wasn't a  _real_  threat.

Really, the almost petulant scowl spearing the shop girl's back, Narcissa was reminded far more of Bella. Which, well, being reminded of Carina's "mother" too much was uncomfortable itself, but she'd take it above her "father" any day.

But she stripped the amusement from her voice anyway — no sense rubbing it in. 'If you mean to be taken seriously as a Lady of the Wizengamot, Carina, you will need to learn to dress like one. Besides, is that conjured robe all you have? Not enough to be getting on with even if you never leave the manor, is it?'

Carina turned her scowl up at Narcissa. She didn't speak for long moments, long enough Narcissa spotted the seamstress already rushing through the shop toward them. 'You're very lucky I actually like you.'

Narcissa barely managed to hold back her surprise. That wasn't news, exactly, Carina had written so much to her before, but it was still, just, surreal, to hear her say it. She couldn't even imagine those words coming out of the Dark Lord's mouth.

... Maybe she should be more diligent in not thinking of Carina as...as her father. It would certainly be less confusing that way.

'After Andy during fourth year, this makes you the second person I've ever let...dress me.' The last words were said with an impressive degree of humiliation, Narcissa almost blushed just hearing it. 'Of course, Andy was also  _un_ dressing me, but we're not to have that sort of relationship, now, are we?'

Narcissa had absolutely no idea how to respond to that statement. She was so floored, the revelation of what exactly that had been, she completely failed to stop the shock from showing on her face. Carina had long enough to smirk victoriously up at her before the tailor was upon them.

She wasn't going to have any trouble passing for Bella's child. Not at all.

Rhiannon, as Narcissa knew the young apprentice seamstress was called, lead the pair of them toward the back of the shop, hands waving and prattling on excitedly. She did have an excess of energy, this Rhiannon. Once they were past a divider, hidden from outside view, she had Carina take off her shoes, while asking them exactly what they were looking for today — Narcissa could see gold glimmer in her eyes when she said Carina was in need of an entire wardrobe. Then she had Carina step up, gamely ignoring the glower the girl was giving her own reflection, and asked her to please remove her robe.

For a short moment, Carina hesitated, staring at Rhiannon, glancing at Narcissa behind her through the mirror. Then she shrugged. One hand rising to about her navel, she gave a brief, casual wave. A wandless charm of some kind, obviously, canceling the conjuration.

And, quite suddenly, Carina was standing there completely nude.

Narcissa let her face fall into her hand, shaking her head to herself. 'Mother Mercy, Carina. You couldn't pick up  _anything_  along the way?'

Apparently ignoring Rhiannon as she fluttered about, Carina let out a thin sigh. 'Because I would know what I'm doing so well, of course.'

The thought was a bit absurd, really, that Carina wouldn't have bothered acquiring any real clothes at all. But, well, when Narcissa thought about it, it hadn't been that long, had it? What, only a day or so? She hadn't had a lot of time to go shopping. (Not to mention, that was a good point, Carina probably wouldn't know what she was doing.) And, more to the point, the need to actually have clothes might not have occurred to her until the last moment. Carina hadn't had need of any for almost fifty years now. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility certain basic human things might just slip her mind sometimes.

Understandable, yes, when she thought about it, but still weird.

Before long, Rhiannon had tracked down a simple shift — it was hardly considered appropriate for a seamstress to be poking around at someone wearing nothing at all, after all. Still looking slightly unsettled, Rhiannon all the same went along with her usual babbling. 'Carina it was, right? The Lady says you're her niece, but I didn't think there were any other Malfoys.'

A thought suddenly occurred to Narcissa: they were probably going to have to obliviate Rhiannon. Carina needing clothes this badly didn't fit their story at all. Narcissa usually just bribed seamstresses when they became privy to something they shouldn't know, a few sickles more than enough to buy their silence, but that likely wouldn't do it in this case. Damn. Oh well.

Anyway, Carina didn't seem likely to answer, blankly glaring at the top of Rhiannon's head as she slung the tape around her, marking her waist, her hips. So Narcissa answered for her. 'She's a Black, not a Malfoy.'

Rhiannon hitched in her measuring for a second, just a second before moving on. 'I didn't think there were any Blacks left either. I mean, pardon me, my lady, but...'

'Bellatrix.' Carina's voice came sudden, sharp, enough Rhiannon jumped, the tape falling from where she had been holding it against Carina's hip. Or maybe it was the name itself, people could be silly about Bella. 'My name. Bellatrix Carina Alexis Black.' An eyebrow ticking up slightly, as she stared down at the startled seamstress, voice low and drawling, 'Does that answer your question?'

But Rhiannon didn't reply, her mouth working in silence. Probably realising the only person who would name a child Carina's age Bellatrix was...well, Bellatrix herself. Also, if her father had been Bellatrix's husband, she would be a Lestrange. Narcissa knew well enough what conclusion most anyone would jump to. More than that, she even followed what Carina was doing — she was using the poor hapless seamstress as a test case.

Though, Narcissa didn't entirely understand why everyone jumped to the conclusion that Bella and the Dark Lord had been involved. She didn't even think it was true. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate — she suspected there  _might_  have been...encounters, in the past. It had been all too obvious Bella was rather enamored of the Dark Lord, ever since she'd been a teenager, and it was even  _more_  obvious she was, how to put it, less than impressed with Rodolphus. (Not that Narcissa could blame her for the latter, she didn't like him much either.) As far as she could tell, judging mostly by what she could read of Bella, any...physical relationship they might or might not have had had been over and done with by the time Narcissa was leaving for Hogwarts. Carina appeared far too young.

But, however sure Narcissa might be they had never been involved, or at least hadn't been involved any longer, speculation about them had continued to spread. It was assumed as fact among all the Blacks and Lestranges. It seemed a majority of everyone in the damn country, Death Eater or not, was convinced, hardly thought to question it. Which she found rather absurd, but that was neither here nor there.

No, that wasn't why Narcissa was holding her breath. She wasn't concerned Rhiannon wouldn't buy the story. She was concerned she  _would_. She wouldn't need it spelled out for her. Rhiannon was a smart girl. The exact particulars of family law varied house to house but, in patriarchal houses, it wasn't unusual for the child of a woman married into the house and a man not her husband, not a member of the house, if the child weren't somehow legitimised, it wasn't unusual for her to be considered not of the family. Normally, such a child would then have no house at all, but the Blacks, rather famously, were once one of the more powerful of the matriarchal families — as was also not unusual in matriarchal families, any child of any woman born a Black was a Black, even if her mother had married out.

That Bellatrix Lestrange's daughter was Carina Black strongly implied the father was not Rodolphus Lestrange. Given this was Bella, there was someone the majority of Britons would automatically assume was the father instead. The problem was...

Well, if Narcissa had to pick the two people most widely despised in recent British history, they would be Bella and the Dark Lord. And her countrymen did have a nasty habit of holding children responsible for the sins of their parents.

She'd been concerned, was still concerned. She wasn't sure posing as the child of Bella and the Dark Lord was the best idea. Narcissa had suggested some other Black, anyone — there were plenty enough eccentric characters in her recent family tree, it wouldn't be difficult to concoct a story people would believe. With the only Black still living locked away in Azkaban, it didn't matter where in the family they put her. But Carina insisted. For some unfathomable reason, she had insisted on framing herself as the child of the Dark Lord. She hadn't thought of Bella at all, actually, it had been  _Narcissa's_  idea for her to claim House Black. But Carina (though it hadn't been "Carina" then, of course) had argued they couldn't choose any other woman as the mother — if a Black  _did_  have a child with the Dark Lord, it would be Bellatrix, it being anybody else would draw suspicion. Narcissa had argued to change the father then, but Carina was persistent, had refused to change the plan once she'd drawn together one she liked.

So Narcissa watched Rhiannon, kneeling where she'd been taking measurements until the revelation had startled her out of her work, staring up at Carina's impassive face. Her own gone somewhat pale, mouth working silently. For long moments she watched, holding her breath, heart pounding hard in her throat, knowing, just knowing, that they had made a fatal mistake already. If people reacted  _too_  badly, if they wouldn't even give Carina a  _chance_ —

Rhiannon let out a sudden breath, shaking her head to herself. 'Myrddin, I  _never_  would have thought... I mean, I had no idea you existed, is all. You'd think people would talk about that...'

The faint trace of a smile pulling at her lips, when Carina spoke again her voice was somewhat warmer. Not  _warm_ , exactly, but  _less cold_  anyway, the sharpness from a moment ago vanished. 'Cissa thought it wise to keep me to herself until things calmed down a bit.'

At that, Rhiannon burst out a gasping laugh, her cheeks puffing out with the breath. 'Well, I should say so!' Then she started, scrambled to pick up the tape she'd dropped, her cheeks pinking a bit as she got back to work. She hesitated almost immediately, glancing sheepishly back up at Carina. 'You don't... I mean, sorry to ask, but, do you, you know...remember at all? Him, I mean.'

Carina's face was so absolutely still Narcissa just knew she was restraining an amused smile. 'No, I don't. I'm not certain I ever even met him. I don't really remember my mother either, for that matter. I get the feeling she had little interest in my existence.'

Despite herself, Narcissa had to fight the urge to laugh. It's just, if Bella ever  _did_  have a daughter, Narcissa wouldn't be at all surprised if, well, she had  _little interest in her existence_. She wasn't exactly the mothering type, her sister.

'Oh, well...' Slowly at first, Rhiannon got back to work, finally finished the last few measurements, stood to go take them down. 'It's probably better that way, when you think about it, isn't it?'

While Rhiannon was off ruffling through a pile of cloth, Carina turned to look at Narcissa through the mirror, a satisfied smirk on her face. 'Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself just yet. I'd at least wait to see how the  _Prophet_  spins it before congratulating myself.'

The smirk drained away, replaced with an expression more thoughtful. 'How long do you suppose we'll have? I can't imagine we can keep my existence secret for long.'

Narcissa shook her head. Theoretically, it was easily possible to hide someone indefinitely — in fact, their story depended on it. The more contact someone had with the outside world, however, the more impractical it became. And Carina wasn't exactly planning to sit around the manor knitting. 'Longer than I would have expected before, but I can't guess how long. They're rather obsessed with the Potter girl these days.'

'Ah, yes, Hazel Potter.' Somewhat to Narcissa's surprise, Carina's voice and face suggested only mild curiosity. Which, really, she shouldn't be surprised anymore — she'd already known Carina found the whole debacle with the Girl-Who-Lived and the true Dark Lord to be interesting, but ultimately inconsequential. She simply hadn't expected it, it still caught her off-guard. 'How did that happen, anyway? I know her father couldn't have been. You and Evans were in the same year at Hogwarts, yes?'

'I was a year under her, actually, though we did run into each other from time to time.' And if that wasn't a way to put it. 'But I have no idea. For all that I would otherwise be unsurprised to learn someone like Evans was lilin, I know for a fact she was not.' Anyone whose time at Hogwarts had overlapped with hers should know that, especially if they had also met Bella. She meant, the other Bella. Her sister and her confusingly-named lilin friend — though that word felt a little too thin to define their relationship — were rather older than Narcissa, but not  _that_ much older than her, not so much she couldn't remember what an actual teenage lilin felt like. Evans had had an aggravating personality and an absurd degree of magical talent she could easily expect to see in a lilin, but the feel of her was entirely wrong. Magic shifted around lilin in a way that was recogniseable, and around Evans it simply hadn't.

That was what she would say should anyone challenge her on the claim, anyway. She certainly wouldn't admit the  _real_  reason she was so certain — after all, the company she mostly kept wouldn't react at all well to learning she had, to put it mildly, intimate knowledge of both mudbloods and lilin. Or, to being reminded, in any case. She wasn't the only woman in her social circle to have entertained a spate of rebellion in her youth. They generally did each other the courtesy of pretending such indiscretions hadn't occurred.

For that matter, they generally did each other the courtesy of pretending such indiscretions were confined to that oh-so-rebellious youth. Some things simply weren't spoken of, and certainly not in the present tense.

Carina just nodded. 'All the more interesting for it, I suppose. The girl will be worth watching.'

'They're going to try to strip House Potter from her.' Narcissa couldn't be more specific than that, couldn't predict which way the attack would come from, who would be leading it. But she knew it would happen. A lilin suddenly ascending to the head of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight? No, something would be done about it, it was inevitable. That she was the Girl-Who-Lived only made it almost personal, the sense of outrage, of betrayal just that much more intense.

'True.' Carina broke off momentarily, watching Rhiannon return with an armful of robes. With a faint look of distaste, Carina threw the first over her head, stood still to let Rhiannon pick around with it, all the while clearly attempting to hold in a glare. But Rhiannon stayed meek and silent, surely used to customers talking around her by now. 'Are they likely to succeed?'

It would probably be a bad idea to let her amusement with Carina's discomfort show. So, forcing her face as blank as possible, Narcissa shook her head. 'I can't say. They might, they might not. Her greatest vulnerability is a rather small target.' Carina blinked at that — of course, she wouldn't be up to date on this sort of thing. 'The avenue with the greatest chance of success would be for a cousin to make a claim on the lordship. However, given how severely the House has shrunk over the last two centuries, finding someone both closely related enough and whose eligibility for the title is unimpeachable under Potter family law would be complicated. Not impossible, but complicated. I can think of only three potential candidates, off the top of my head, but one is approaching a marriage that will render her ineligible, and the other two are unlikely to go along with such an effort, considering their personal politics.'

'Hmm. It'd be unfortunate if they do succeed. From what Draco has told me—' Narcissa held in her momentary confusion. Draco and Carina had never spoken, Narcissa must have mentioned it at some point. '—the Lady Potter sounds entertaining, if nothing else. She would certainly make our shared time in the Wizengamot more lively.'

Narcissa smiled. 'I suppose I can't argue with that. Are you suggesting we support her defence, when the time comes?'

'I don't see why not. If we can do it without overly risking our momentum elsewhere, of course. The Lady Potter would not be a bad ally to have, any of her supporters who might lean our way politically even better.'

She wasn't entirely wrong. Or even mostly wrong. Carina was planning a bit of a political shift from, that is, her father's time, but she hadn't swung so far the Light would want anything to with her. But, the Girl-Who-Lived wasn't exactly Light, was she? Everyone had assumed she would be, if only due to Dumbledore's patronage, but her proxy had almost immediately joined the more moderate Bones–Longbottom alliance, her voting record leaning somewhat Dark even among them. That Potter herself would lean Dark actually wasn't unthinkable, when she thought about it — even having died when her daughter had been so very young, Evans must have had more influence on her than anyone had expected.

Really, this new scandal was only going to push Potter further toward the Dark. While the pureblood nationalist Dark would predictably be less than welcoming, the traditionalist Dark likely wouldn't give a damn whether Potter was human or lilin or any other being under the sun, it made little difference to them. The traditionalists were far less influential than once they'd been, but they did still exist. Of the current factions in the Wizengamot, they would be the  _most_  supportive — after the nationalists, those most fervently opposed to a lilin heading a Noble House would be  _the Light themselves!_

She'd already realised this, shortly after the news had broke. The Light was going to, inevitably, vilify and persecute their own little hero, in the process shoving her into the arms of their enemies. It was going to be magnificent.

So, there was nothing to say but, 'I'll look into it.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [an Orwellian name] —  _For the record, Hazel doesn't entirely understand what that means. It's just something Lily thought, and she knows it's a book thing, so she assumes Hermione will understand it._
> 
> [And if that wasn't a way to put it.] —  _It has been a while so, as a reminder, Narcissa and Lily did have a rather...contentious sort of fling for all of a few weeks, back when they were sixteen, fifteen or so._
> 
> Dark vs. Light —  _This has come up in my previous fics, but I don't think it's really been talked about here. In my headcanon, the political philosophy commonly called "Light" is essentially humanocentric — greater protections for muggles, regulation of dangerous magics, less rights for non-human beings, etc — and the "Dark" is essentially magocentric — greater rights for non-human beings, free practice of magic, unity of magical peoples while generally not giving a shit about muggles, etc. The traditionalist Dark, the alliance in the Wizengamot named after Ingham and Monroe, the Most Ancient Houses that lead it, does still exist, but is far weaker than it once had been. The Light has no Most Ancient Houses among its members, so is usually just called the Light. The Bones–Longbottom alliance are somewhere between the two, more moderate but generally leaning Dark on being rights and Light on the regulation of magic, though exact positions vary wildly member to member. The "pureblood nationalist Dark" Narcissa refers to are, essentially, Death Eaters._
> 
> _Dumbledore has managed to moderate the Light somewhat on certain issues related to creature–being law, but even that is very inconsistent — Dumbledore himself believes only **some** beings should be accorded greater rights, and he's made less progress in winning the hearts and minds of the Light than he thinks he has. Votes on creature–being law, oddly enough, tend to see the Ingham–Monroe and Bones–Longbottom alliances voting together, in opposition to the **Light and the pureblood nationalists** , who together are numerous enough to carry morevotes, especially when the Light-leaning B–L people are added in._
> 
> _Stuff like this is why it's important to think of political thought as more than just a conservative–liberal continuum. Similar coincidences of opinion happen in real life politics all the time._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _I think it should be pretty obvious who Canopus/Carina is now. I came just short of spelling it out. I'd originally intended for her to come completely out of left field during fourth year, with absolutely no explanation of who she is or where she came from, but plans change. The idea is an adaptation from...well, more than one of my other fics which I don't believe I'll ever get to writing. Since I don't think I'll ever write them, I decided to bring in something that amuses me._
> 
> _Was always going to be a thing in this fic, planned from the beginning. Just, I added a few elements to the idea from other fics._
> 
> _Anyway, yeah, there was a long delay before this chapter...again. Part of it was being tired from my sleep schedule being absurd, part of it being too distracted on other projects. Part of it was deciding I didn't like the chapter I had planned, scrapping it and starting over. I've actually reworked a significant portion of the fic, removing entirely a couple subplots I decided really weren't that important. I'd rather finish this fic before I burn out on HP entirely than waste time fiddling with bits that don't really matter._
> 
> _Of course, then I forgot to post it on AO3. Uh, whoops._
> 
> _Not gonna bother predicting when I'll have the next chapter. I know exactly what it's going to be — if any of you are wondering how exactly Carina got here and what's happening at Hogwarts, most of those questions will be answered — but I haven't been able to write as much as I'd like. Turns out my new job didn't result in significantly more writing time. Whoops._
> 
> _Until next time,  
>  ~Wings_


	14. Smooth Sailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That went well.

Ignoring the soul-blackening press of noisy, idiot children around him, Severus turned back to Lockhart, meeting his brilliant grin with an empty stare. 'Surely you're joking.'

The glare of light off his teeth, that damn overdone hair, was so bright Severus's eyes were watering. At least the deep blue robes weren't that bad, rather staid by Lockhart's standards. 'Really, Severus, have you ever known me to be anything less than completely serious?'

Severus had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Well, to be more precise, he hadn't any idea how to respond to that that wouldn't benefit from having far fewer witnesses.

'It's been on my mind for some time now. Believe me, I would never question the effectiveness of the classroom setting—' Lockhart glanced at the Ravenclaw blue of his own robes and, god help him,  _winked_ , slow and sly and coy. '—but those methods are most useful for theory. The  _practice_  of defence, I am afraid, requires a rather different environment to teach properly. I've been meaning to talk to you about it the whole break, but you hardly ever left your lab.'

And he'd still be there if he could help it. Unfortunately, however, the winter break had ended, and the students were returning. His presence at the feast was hardly necessary — in fact, he was convinced most of the students and staff would be more at ease if he were absent — but Dumbledore was intransigent in his insistence that Severus must always show up for meals if reasonably possible. If he didn't, Dumbledore would find his way down into the dungeons at some point to nag at him, dealing with a roomful of aggravating children was less of a headache.

However narrowly.

Severus held in yet another sigh, tried to keep the weariness from his face. 'Why don't you talk to Filius about it? He is, after all, the professional duelist in the room.'

He was standing only a handful of metres away, in fact, just at the doors into the Great Hall, bouncing with an insufferable degree of glee and excitement. Personally couldn't imagine being so pleased the children were back, but that was just Filius. 'Oh, I did broach the subject with him, of course. But he claimed, and I find I agree, that he isn't perfectly suited for the job. It isn't a  _duelling_  class, after all — it's a  _self-defence_  class. They are quite different things. Duelling has rules, you see.'

'And what makes you feel I would be any more suited than he?'

Lockhart's ever-present grin, oddly, vanished in an instant. An eyebrow ticked up, meeting Severus's eyes with an uncharacteristically sober and heavy sort of look. Then his eyes flicked downward, toward Severus's arms, folded over his chest. Specifically, his left forearm.

Feeling his spine stiffen, Severus narrowed his eyes. Ice slipping into his voice, he hissed, 'I highly doubt you intend for me to teach those particular skills to the children.'

'No, of course not.' His voice was light, airy, raising a hand in a dismissive wave. He'd gone straight back to his usual flamboyant cheerfulness so abruptly Severus thought he might have gotten whiplash. 'No, no, it's the knowledge, the experience that's essential. You don't need to know the Dark Arts to defend yourself against them. However, you do need someone who does know the Dark Arts to have any idea  _how_  to defend against them. I've learned a little myself over the years, but I wouldn't dream I'm more qualified than you. Different area of expertise, you see.'

Severus frowned at that. He wasn't convinced his  _was_  a different area of expertise. While most of Lockhart's... _adventures_  concerned deadly magical creatures, or else old wards or enchantments gone awry, he was known to have fought mages on multiple occasions as well. If the stories could be believed, he had personally taken out what the British would call a Dark Lord in Indochina, and a second in the Caribbean. While even his own tellings depicted those victories as achieved mostly through trickery and overpreparation, there was no doubt Lockhart was skilled in combat magic. Perhaps not as skilled as himself, but skilled enough.

At least, assuming the stories could be believed. It was hard to trust his accomplishments were legitimate, given how...well,  _Lockhart_  he was. He was vain, and overly dramatic, and just plain  _silly_. But, from what Severus had heard of his classes, gleaned mostly from a few older Slytherins he'd asked to spy for him, it did certainly  _seem_  like Lockhart was more than the ludicrous fop he appeared. His argument here was even rather suggestive — the casual reference to Severus's past even more so. He of course wouldn't trust  _everything_  he heard about Lockhart, but he was convinced by now a fair bit of it was actually true.

Not that he found Lockhart any less annoying for it. 'Whether or not you feel I am qualified for the role you have in mind, I fail to see why I should sacrifice what little time free of these vermin I'm allowed.'

It could be his imagination, but Lockhart's grin seemed to turn slightly crooked, as though...amused. Severus couldn't see what he'd said that was so funny. 'Come now, Severus. It won't be all bad. The two of  _us_  leading a seminar in practical self-defence — it'll be  _fun!_  You have my word, I'll find some way to keep you entertained,  _some_  way to repay you for assistance.'

Severus blinked, too blindsided to do anything but stare at the grinning lunatic. Was... Was Lockhart  _flirting_  with him? Granted, that wasn't altogether surprising — Lockhart would flirt with someone as soon as...well, anything, really — but  _him?_  Really?

The absurd little man had  _clearly_  taken one curse too many.

Luckily, Severus was saved from having to figure out how the hell he was supposed to respond to  _that_. Though, if he'd been able to choose how, he would have picked something rather different.

In a harsh rush of flame and noise, that  _damn_  phoenix burst into existence, high near the ceiling. It drifted slowly downward, a trail of shimmering fire left in its wake, its song filling the room to shaking. Even as Severus grimaced with annoyance — he  _hated_  that fucking bird — he felt the magic of the song reach into him, draw on his emotions like a musician at strings. Emotions very familiar to him.

The stillness, the low-simmering terror, the excitement turning blood hot and breath thick, that razor focus, so tight it burned, narrowing to this moment, this instant, everything sharp and bright and intense. The calm before the storm.

The last seconds before a battle.

As the constant flood of children making their way to the Great Hall slowed, glancing around and murmurring to themselves, over the white noise, under the phoenix song, Severus heard...something. He wasn't sure what it was. A hissing, a groaning, a snarling. Coming closer, the sound of something moving, scratching against the floors, thudding against the walls.

Something large.

'Severus!' He glanced at Lockhart, and nearly didn't recognise him. That insufferable grin was gone, replaced with a look of such sober intensity he almost seemed a completely different person. 'The children!' He whirled around, robes swirling behind him. 'Filius! Basilisk!'

Just with the word, Severus matching it to the approaching noises almost unconsciously, frozen terror shot through his nerves, so thick he nearly froze. A  _basilisk?_  In the school? The things were horribly difficult to kill, and with all the children here, dozens could be dead an instant.

For all he hated the vast majority of the little shites, that didn't mean he wanted them to die.

Of course, he only  _nearly_  froze. Just as Lockhart and Filius separated from the crowd of students, just as the children started screaming and panicking in their horror, Severus moved. His wand falling into his hand, he reached out to as many of the children as he could take at once, and shoved them forcibly through shadows. The last dozen or so near the doors into the Great Hall he pushed inside to meet them with a sweeping banishment, slammed the doors closed, sealed them with a runic charm from the fingers of his off hand. He realised even as he did it he was sealing Dumbledore inside, but there was nothing to be done for it.

Unfortunately, that still left roughly half their original number milling in the Entrance Hall. Severus appeared just inside the doors to the grounds in the blink of an eye, summoned every one of the children still in the hall toward them. It was chaos, bodies picking up and flying into the air, tumbling to the tile at his feet, slamming into and onto each other, yelling and flailing and screaming. But, there weren't many shields against physical blows powerful enough to repel a  _bloody basilisk_  — they were close enough now he'd be able to cover them all.

Even with them piled into a ring within a few metres of him, he still barely managed it. The magic burned through his arm, sharp as lightning and hot as molten metal, but he grit his teeth, forced the charm with everything he had, and the shield snapped into existence, a silvery, shimmering barrier cutting them all off from the rest of the hall. The charm stole his breath away, his vision swirling and fading black for a dangerous instant, falling dizzy to one knee.

It took a second for him to realise the impact hadn't hurt as much as it should because he'd managed to put his knee right into a small hip shrouded in Ravenclaw colours. Oops.

Once he could breathe again, once he had stopped shaking enough to use his wand, he started in on another charm to blind them all, hopefully soon enough no student had been unlucky enough to meet the monster's eyes yet. But, with a glance up toward the rest of the Hall, he stopped.

The thing was fucking enormous. A deep, deadly green, cavernous jaws filled with a sickening array of metre-long blades — which always had struck him as odd, the full set of teeth basilisks supposedly had — a feathery crest of red and blue sticking up from the rear of the skull, its eyes glowing, scintillating reds and yellows and oranges. From what Severus had read of basilisks, how much of the Hall it was filling, the gargantuan serpent had to be, what, a thousand years old? at least, maybe more?

That thought didn't ease the frozen tension in his stomach at all — a basilisk's magical resistance increased with age.

Swirling around its head, which was itself swaying with dizzying speed, reaching high enough above Severus's head he had to crane his neck even at this distance, that bloody phoenix was flying, fire filling the air between its wings, song filling the room, dive-bombing the thing again and again, beak and claws glowing white through the flames. Oddly enough, Filius seemed to be in the air too, the tiny little bundle of robes zooming across the base of the skull, a charm of some kind splashing uselessly against the scales, an odd shimmer of blue-white appearing in the air, Filius planting himself against it, only to fly off again, attempting to behead the basilisk with another charm, again and again and again, the snapping and crackling of charms so powerful Severus could feel the shiver of their failure down to his bones, the colours a rainbow of spells, only half of which he recognised.

And there Lockhart was too, down on the floor, following the basilisk as it slithered around, keening and snarling so high and hard Severus's ears ached, tendrils of red and blue and green snapping from his wand, curling up the thing's body. Most didn't seem to have any effect, but a few, a precious few left barely-visible welts running across its scales, even from here seeming to steam, the basilisk flinching with pain at each hit, growing more and more frequent as Lockhart discovered more variations on his unfamiliar spell that had any effect.

Most importantly, in that instant he looked up, Severus  _should_  have died. He'd met the thing's eyes, narrow-slitted things that had to be half as wide as he was tall, burning with rage and agony, shards of colour shifting between blood and fire as though its skull were filled with gemstones. He flinched at the sight of its hellish eyes, but then it moved on, half striking back at those assaulting it and half attempting to flee. And Severus was still alive.

It was then he noticed the magic on the air. Barely noticeable, setting lines to bend, colours to smear, like a thick heat haze had filled the entire hall. Some spell, the magic so thick he could almost taste it, but he didn't recognise the thing at all. Its purpose, though, was easy enough to guess.

Throwing off one last protective charm, ensuring none of the idiots thought to walk out of the protection of his shield, Severus shadow-walked out of it, into the noise and chaos of the battle. He sent curse after curse at the thing's head, not really considering too hard exactly which spells he was using. (If anyone fussed at him later for using anything questionable, they could just go straight to hell.) Whatever he could think of, anything that might actually do something. Incendiary curses, severing curses, flaying curses, a few blood-mediated curses — boiling was the obvious one, but he had a few he'd designed himself, transfiguring the blood into poison, or acid, or shredding the cells into useless mush — killing curses whenever there was a convenient gap, trying to think of what to do next, a couple rather esoteric rotting curses he'd learned at some point, anything,  _everything_.

All bloody useless. The thing was moving around fast enough many of them missed, charring the walls, blowing off shards quickly gathering as rubble on the gleaming tile. The killing curses seemed to do  _something_ , the basilisk cringing and screaming (Severus winced each time, resisting the urge to cover his ears), but then it went right back to flailing and snapping at Filius and the bloody bird. He knew, of course, that the Green Death  _did_  work on basilisks, it simply required more power than Severus himself could manage. If he could get Filius and Lockhart to coordinate with him on it,  _that_  might do it, but he somehow doubted they were proficient with it.

Not to mention they didn't exactly have the opportunity to hash out strategy.

While his thoughts raced, desperately trying to come up with  _something_ , the basilisk turned its head at just the wrong moment, snapped out at Filius as he whipped by yet again. The tiny sorcerer spun off, blood trailing behind him in a whirl. With barely a thought, Severus stepped through shadows, glanced up at Filius falling toward him, canceled most of his momentum with a single spell. Catching him, lowered him on his back to the floor, ignoring his sharp babbling, ripped his robes open. Severus winced — not at the thick well of blood already turning his robes sopping wet, no, those were obviously teeth marks. There were  _very_  few treatments for basilisk venom, and while he was fully capable of brewing an antidote, it would take too long, there wasn't any—

He could slap himself. 'FAWKES!' With a roar of flame, a flash of heat so intense it almost burned, the bloody phoenix was there, already crooning a few heart-wrenching notes. Severus whipped a few tears away with a flick of his wand, cast it into the weeping wounds. They were deep enough they would need more — Filius would survive, of course, but they needed him to help them kill this thing. 'Kalle, re-blood.' The spell started spilling over his lips, almost without conscious thought, a simplified healing ritual of his own design, the words almost more song than incantation. The elf appeared after a few seconds, took one glance at Severus in mid-cast, popped the cork and poured it down Filius's throat herself, before disappearing again.

He really couldn't blame her — elves had even less chance against basilisks than humans did.

Almost done, the holes were closing up even as Severus watched, colour was returning to Filius's face, he'd already summoned his wand back this hand, tense and raring to go, but not done yet, Severus held him down, raced through the last verse of his spell. He jumped, the incantation nearly broken, at the low, reverberating tone of a gong, coming from far too nearby, practically over his head.

He looked up, and immediately wished he hadn't. Only two or three metres above them was a nauseating panoply of jagged and crooked teeth, the basilisk slavering and snarling. And between them, nearly touching Severus's shoulder, was Lockhart, wand held up, casting the shimmering gold barrier that had just saved their lives. With a shouted incantation Severus didn't recognise, the shield vanished, replaced with a wide flood of silver light, slamming the basilisk in the face. He was too dazzled to make out exactly what happened, but there was an agonising keening, a floor-shuddering crash, the shearing shatter of glass, the cacophonous rattling and tinkling of the gems from the hourglasses scattering...across...the ground...

Severus was having an idea.

His healing spell done, he said, 'Bubblehead charms.  _Don't touch the dust._ ' And they were moving again, Filius climbing that blue-white shimmer into the air like stairs, those odd tendrils springing from Lockhart's wand, again falling upon the basilisk. The thing almost looked like it'd gotten a bad sunburn along its snout, seared and peeling, but it fought back undeterred, snapping and squealing.

Severus didn't move, didn't even rise from his knees. With a flick of his off hand he summoned a swath of the spilled gems to himself, bringing a sea of flickering emerald and crimson and gold and sapphire tumbling toward him. Once he had what felt like enough, dozens and dozens and dozens of the things, he cast a transfiguration he rarely had any occasion to use. It was technically a transfiguration, but the European model usually considered it alchemy — the crystal lattice of the gemstones was shattered, reducing it all to a pile of glittering, glassy sand. And he cast the charm again, reducing it to dust — bubblehead charm — and then again, dust fine enough it would pass through the lungs into the blood. And then, he prepared another bit of alchemy.

"Alchemy" was one of those words that was used rather inconsistently. It didn't really help that different schools of magic drew the line between alchemy and transfiguration in wildly different places. He tended to think of it in quite distinct terms: transfiguration was the mutation of a thing's substance, while alchemy was the mutation of a thing's essence. An alchemist could, with prior research and a wealth of practice, imbue an object with magical properties it did not originally have. Unlike enchanting, this permanently altered the fundamental nature of the object, made it as though this were simply how it was supposed to be. A sufficiently talented alchemist could imbue any object with any magical property he understood well enough — it was the  _understanding_  of the thing that was the problem. That was the true breakthrough Dumbledore and Flamel had managed with dragon's blood: they'd arithmantically described its magical properties well enough any sufficiently talented alchemist could synthesise it for use in potions, without needing to find some magically-neutral way to counter the chemically caustic nature of dragon's blood. How well an object held new magics did vary somewhat, depending on the object's molecular structure, but there were few limits to what a well-educated, skilled alchemist could manage, strange and adaptive and powerful magics.

Most people did tend to forget this, but Severus just so happened to be the youngest licensed master alchemist in the history of the whole bloody country.

So Severus considered a substance, one he'd studied quite a lot over the years, and the essence attached to it. A poison for which he had spent much time trying in vain to develop an antidote. To his frustration, he'd never managed to figure it out. To his terror, there didn't seem to be any way to counter it at all. If one was exposed to it, there was no other option but to wait it out, to wait for the body to filter it out of their blood the slow, natural way. It didn't even seem possible to speed the process up.

The venom of the Asian phoenix-viper, colloquially known as the sorcerer's bane. While effective enough on its own, the venom was most commonly used in perhaps the single-most horrifying potion in popular use: the common magic-suppressant.

Even amortentia could be resisted, after all.

Ignoring his own unease, Severus alchemised the magic-nullifying properties of sorcerer's bane into his pile of microscopically fine dust. He gathered it all up in the tightest levitation spell he could manage, and lifted it all into the air.

And held the cloud around the basilisk's head.

It only took a few seconds. Not the first time, not the second, but the time after that, when Filius zoomed by yet again, this time his curse punched through, the rear half of the basilisk's skull exploding into a deluge of blood and bone and flesh, spattering the floor near the main entrance to the dungeons. When the basilisk fell, abruptly limp with death, a portion of it was flung into the air again, spraying half up the walls and across the floor, thick blood spotting Severus's robes up to his waist.

He was too relieved the bloody thing was dead to be disgusted.

* * *

Severus had absolutely no idea what to make of this.

Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. He knew exactly what had happened. He simply wasn't sure what to do about it.

It had taken some time for him to make it down here. There had been panicked children to deal with, and then inane questions from Ministry officials to answer. It had been the Ministry who had found this place, in fact, one of the Aurors tracking the basilisk back, finding its lair. Severus hadn't been able to get away, suffering Filius's pleasant excitement, Lockhart's habitual grandstanding — he wasn't sure he should believe Lockhart had learned to contain the glare of a basilisk from an American cursebreaker, but he had no better explanation for why they weren't all dead — having to insist that he hadn't known anything about the Chamber of Secrets, he'd had nothing to do with a basilisk being released on the students.

Honestly, if Dumbledore had any suspicion Severus might do something like that he should just fire him now. He'd nearly even been arrested Dumbledore had hesitated so long, seriously...

But, finally, hours later, he was standing in the Chamber of Secrets — a reality he was still having trouble wrapping his mind around, but that was beside the point. The Ministry had found signs a basilisk had been living here for centuries. (They had, in fact, determined the basilisk being set loose had been an accident, whoever had been using the place hadn't properly locked up behind them.) But also, more worryingly, they'd found the remains of sacrifices used in a ritual. The remains of  _human_  sacrifices. Severus had been surprised three of the dead students were upper-year Slytherins, but only because he hadn't heard from their parents, he wasn't particularly broken up about it. (They were, after all, some of the most empty-headed of the unreasoning bigots among his students, no real loss.) The Aurors hadn't been able to say what the ritual was for, but they'd taken a few pictures, a few readings, and would hand it all over to the Unspeakables. Hopefully they'd come up with something.

It was doubtful the Unspeakables would release whatever they learned anyway, but Severus didn't need to wait. He already knew what had happened.

Left abandoned on the floor, slimy and wet as it was, barely visible in the thick subterranean darkness, was the charred remains of a leather-bound journal. Most of the pages had been burned away, the cover blackened, but it was still identifiable. As were the traces of essence threaded through its substance. Torn apart as thoroughly as the book itself, as though the magic had been ripped away, leaving only wounded shreds behind. All the same, Severus recognised this magic. He had read some about the topic, had only actually seen one once. But still, he recognised it.

This book had been a horcrux.

The Aurors clearly hadn't found the thing — they'd removed the bodies, leaving only stains on the ancient, mouldering floor, but this had been left behind. Dumbledore didn't know, might not even recognise it for what it had been if he were holding it in his hand. Only Severus had found it, knew what it was, understood what it meant. Only he knew.

The Dark Lord was back.

But not really. No, it was potentially even worse than that. It wasn't the  _true_  Dark Lord who had performed this unknown ritual, after all. That would be one thing, that would be bad enough, but no. It was a  _copy_  of the Dark Lord, one squirreled away in a sympathetic anchor to tie him to life, it was his horcrux that had resurrected itself. That meant, in a manner of speaking, there would now be  _two_  of them.

Which was  _potentially_  worse than there being only one. The problem was, there was no telling exactly what this former horcrux would do. He'd met this one, see. Lucius had been overly proud to be entrusted with it, perhaps  _too_  proud — even not entirely understanding what it was, the idiot. Lucius had... Well, he'd introduced them. Making an empty journal a horcrux had been an interesting idea, it'd been able to communicate with whomever held it. Apparently, the Dark Lord had been using it all this time as a second pair of eyes, so to speak. (Two minds being better than one, and all that.) For some reason, the horcrux had fallen out of the Dark Lord's favour, and he'd handed it off to Lucius for safekeeping.

Severus had asked exactly what their disagreement was, but hadn't gotten a straight answer. But Tom, as the horcrux insisted on being called, hadn't been too subtle about its disapproval. With the Dark Lord himself, with the direction his revolution was taken. It hadn't given specific details,  _why_  it was so disappointed, but the feeling had been clear.

This horcrux, he knew, had been created with the soul of Ciardha Monroe, overwritten with the memories and personality of the Dark Lord as he had been at seventeen. (Leaving aside for the moment the insanity of  _anyone_  making a horcrux at seventeen.) By the time Severus had met the Dark Lord...

Well. Severus himself was hardly as he had been at seventeen, and the Dark Lord had had more time to change than he had.

He knew what had happened here. He just didn't know what to do about it.

He  _could_  tell Dumbledore. But then, well, Dumbledore would know about it. And Severus knew exactly what Dumbledore would want to  _do_  about it. The problem there was, Severus didn't know if he agreed. No, he  _didn't_  agree. Dumbledore would want to track down the ex-horcrux, wherever it was, and kill it. And Severus wasn't at all certain that was the right thing to do.

It wasn't at all necessary, for one. Severus's enmity was focused on the Dark Lord, the  _true_  Dark Lord. It was possible tracking down his horcruces wasn't necessary — if he remained disembodied for long enough, his identity would gradually fray, until he simply ceased to exist, leaving the horcruces behind — but even if it were, the living person the journal had become was no longer involved. In making a body for itself, it had destroyed the magic binding it to the original Dark Lord: it was no longer a horcrux. It did not  _need_  to die.

For another, it hadn't done anything wrong. It hadn't participated in its creation. One could argue it might be guilty of conspiracy, over those years it'd brainstormed magics and strategy with the original Dark Lord, but that technically wasn't even a crime in magical Britain. There was this ritual it'd done to create itself a body, true, but... Well, Severus was willing to write that off as desperation, something done solely in the interest of survival. There were a lot of things people could get away with in that context.

More to the point, it hadn't done anything  _to him_. It'd had nothing to do with killing Lily — it'd been locked in Lucius's vault  _years_  before that had happened. It was  _possible_  it might be a threat to Lily and the girl now but...he doubted it. He remembered, how disappointed, how disillusioned the thing had been, back when they'd communicated, years ago now. He seriously doubted it would want to have anything to do with the true Dark Lord, or the Death Eaters. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if it ended up fighting  _against_  them. There was more reason to think it might be an ally in time than an enemy.

No. No, he wasn't going to tell Dumbledore. That would just make everything more complicated. He should tell Lily, though. Just in case.

And he might want to start considering how he should approach Narcissa about all this. Just in case.

* * *

Carina Black folded up the latest issue of  _The Daily Prophet_ , set it aside. She reached for her coffee, but didn't take a sip right away, holding it suspended an inch from her lips — it was rather hard to drink properly when one was busy smirking, after all.

She'd had doubts herself, that it would work out properly. Killing a few idiots to fuel her rebirth was one thing, but the basilisk could easily kill dozens of students in an instant — that was something quite else. With Dumbledore and Flitwick and Lockhart and Snape there, she hadn't been  _too_  worried. But it was still gratifying to see it had all gone precisely according to plan.

'I have to wonder,' she muttered to herself, the smug sense of victory clear even on her still unfamiliar voice. (She'd made something of a habit of talking aloud to herself, trying to get used to the sound of it.) 'What will you make of  _that_  one, Father?'

Mm. Calling him that still felt weird.

* * *

_And what exactly does that mean?_

Lily frowned down at the enchanted notebook, her daughter's fingers clenched tight on the cover. Severus had filled nearly an entire page in one go, describing what had happened at Hogwarts in more detail than the  _Prophet_  had provided, with a few of his own discoveries and insights. That someone had, to all appearances,  _accidentally set loose an eleven-century-old basilisk_  wasn't even the worst part — and how  _absurd_  was it that she could say that and actually mean it? No,  _apparently_ , that whole disaster had just been a distraction.

_Apparently_ , there was a second Dark Lord running around now.  _Apparently_.

She let out a long sigh, rubbing at Hazel's forehead. The problem was, she  _really_  didn't know what this meant. There was no telling what the thing would do. Assuming it was much like the original Dark Lord, she rather doubted it would make itself an enemy right away — the Dark Lord had attempted to recruit Lily on more than one occasion, despite his blood purist rhetoric, and he'd been open to forming an alliance of convenience with Hazel, even with the prophecy against her. True, they'd both thoroughly burned those bridges, but this thing wasn't the Dark Lord, not really. It didn't remember any of that, it shouldn't have any particular enmity for them.

Unless it joined forces with the Dark Lord...but Sev said that was unlikely.  _Apparently_  — and here was another bloody huge "apparently" — the Dark Lord's magically-preserved seventeen-year-old self had been a bit displeased with what he had grown up to be. If Sev's opinion could be trusted, and Lily knew no reason it shouldn't be, it was more likely to oppose the Dark Lord than ally with him. Which was an odd thought, but Sev said he'd actually spoken with the thing before, he knew better than Lily did.

She didn't know, Hazel. She  _really_  didn't know. It might be nothing, they might be screwed. She had no idea.

_Oh, well. Okay then. If there was nothing else you wanted to do tonight, we should probably get to bed. I have exams coming up and all._

Yes, of course. Lily leaned against a branch just to her right, and released her hold on Hazel's body.

Hazel didn't hesitate a second, slipping Lily's notebook into her bag, leaning off the branch they'd been sitting on. Lily cringed at the loss of balance, teetering over the ten-metre fall toward the ground, but forced herself to not intervene. As she started falling, Hazel reached for a branch just to the side, weight swinging her around, foot coming up to meet another branch, planting just long enough to kill her momentum, and she let go, landing on another a short distance below, stepping off, turning and grabbing it as she fell, swinging again...

She tried not to pay attention to it too much. Hazel didn't have nearly the caution with heights that she should, it made Lily nervous. It hadn't been too much of a problem before, but when spring had come around again Hazel had made a habit of doing much of her reading up trees. Girl seemed to think she was a goddamn monkey or something. True, she'd managed to go this long without hurting herself, but the way she swung and jumped around all the time was bloody terrifying.

One of those things one just had to learn to deal with having a lilin daughter, she guessed. Of course she wouldn't be afraid of heights —  _lilin could bloody fly_. It made perfect sense, but she still hated it.

Once again, Hazel made it down to the ground with only a few little scrapes here and there to show for it. After quick scooping up her shoes, Hazel was stepping into shadows. Lily still couldn't help a little pride every time Hazel did that. It was rather obscure magic, after all. Not particularly difficult, true, but rare enough competent users Hazel's age were almost unheard of — Hazel had picked up shadow-walking even younger than Lily had, in fact. True, Lily hadn't had anyone to teach her, picked it up entirely from books she'd found sneaking into the Restricted Section. But still.

When the world reappeared around them, they were standing at the base of the veela–lilin dorms, playfully named  _la Colombiѐr_. (The building itself was warded, after all, they couldn't go straight inside.) The thing was halfway up the hills to the north of the valley, at a spot where the underlying rock had crumbled away a bit, a steep rise not quite severe enough to be called a cliff looming over the campus. Set on a stretch of flattened and reinforced stone was a tower, stretched nine storeys tall. While there were some solid walls, dividing off the individual rooms and completely closing in the bathrooms, much of it was left open. The circular hallway around the perimeter of each floor hadn't an outer wall at all, completely open to the elements, only a pillar placed every couple metres to support the floor above. Gauzy curtains in purple and red and gold were hung here and there, only partially obscuring the inside, thin enough there were angles she could see clear through the tower to the opposite side. Situated as it was at the top of a cliff, it was easily the highest structure in the city, the valley from one end to the other clearly laid out below them.

Luckily, the place was so thoroughly warded it practically glowed. Lily had been a bit concerned when she'd first seen how open the thing was, but a single drop of rain hadn't managed to get inside, never got too hot or too cold. She really did love magic.

Of course, she was still a bit uneasy with the complete lack of guardrails or the like anywhere, but, well, lilin.

Hazel tromped up toward the nearest gate, the thin gravel accumulated on the shelf over the centuries scratching at her bare feet. Soon she was stepping onto polished tile, which one might normally consider "inside" if not for the fact there still wasn't a ceiling above them yet. In each of the cardinal directions were entrances, referred to as gates, though they weren't only on the bottom floor. A vaguely circular section of the floor plan had been cut out, curling staircases — which, thankfully, were framed with handrails — hugging the open space to the left and right, in the middle the floor running right up to the edge. Residents could fly up to whatever level they wanted and land right there, no walls and no guardrails in the way. Even as Hazel made for one of the staircases there was a rush of white and gold overhead, a trio of veela swooping down onto one of the upper levels.

Far as Lily could tell, the veela and lilin who were old enough to transform always flew to get around. The stairs seemed to just be for the younger students and visitors.

The ground floor didn't have any student areas in it at all — laundry and kitchens, her guess, though Hazel had never been in there. The first was mostly composed of common areas designed for various purposes, which seemed to hardly ever be used. So Hazel made her way straight for the floor above that, which was no small climb. The ceilings here were unusually high, to accommodate veela and lilin flying about like crazy people, so it took climbing maybe twice as many stairs as one would expect. She made her way around the ring-shaped hall, idly staring out at the town visible through the gently fluttering curtains, before long reaching her room.

Lily still thought it was somewhat odd. Floor smooth tile, walls wood panels, lighting enchanted crystal she should really look up sometime, glowing a soft red. The furnishings themselves weren't that unusual — perfectly ordinary bed smothered under quilts in yellows and greens, perfectly ordinary wood desk half-buried under books and papers Hazel had haphazardly dropped, couple dressers just as messy with clothes Hazel hadn't bothered properly putting away, drawers left half-open. The only really odd thing was this sort of cloth...hammock...thing, which all the rooms here seemed to have — since Hazel never used it, she'd detached the hook from one side to hang it off the other, so it used up less space. Lily wasn't sure why exactly every room had one of those, it was weird.

Not as weird as the walls, that was the weirdest part of the whole thing. Or, more to the point, the  _lack_  of walls. Hazel's room had one ordinary, proper, solid wall — her room happened to border the baths, they were properly closed in. The wall on the opposite side and the one bordering the outside hall, though, were loose panels on a track, could be slid aside and left open. (Gabbie, who happened to have the room adjacent to Hazel's, had kept trying to fold up the wall after Hazel had put it back, Lily had ended up designing an enchantment for her to lock it in place.) Of course, that meant the outside wall couldn't have a proper door in it, just a rather heavier black curtain which seemed intended more to block light if one wished than to keep people out — there was enough of it bunched up in either corner to pull across and cover the whole wall, actually, so seemed likely. It wasn't unusual for people to fold their walls away if they didn't particularly desire privacy at the moment, Hazel was the only one who kept them closed all the time.

Because of that, among other reasons, Hazel had quickly developed a reputation for being...peculiar. Veela and lilin tended to a more communal mindset than was generally expected in humans, their need for constant companionship apparently rather more acute, their need for privacy seemingly absent. (Hence the optional walls.) Hazel had never been entirely comfortable with large groups of people, and would willingly subject herself even to people she liked for only a few hours at a time, even less if she hadn't the patience for people that day. That made her something of a loner by human standards. By lilin standards, she was pathologically antisocial — and no, that was  _not_  an exaggeration, those who had commented obviously thought there was something seriously wrong with her. They never seemed entirely sure how to handle her, too often weirdly uncomfortable in her presence.

Which Lily guessed was only fair — too much friendliness tended to make Hazel uncomfortable in turn.

Of course, even with two locked down there were still only three walls: the inside was left completely open. In fact, the entire centre of the tower was empty space, from the tile of the first floor to the sky above. No handrails, no, they couldn't do anything to ease Lily's nerves — at least Hazel had only one floor to fall from here. It seemed when residents wanted to visit each other they just flew through the middle room to room. There were curtains on this side, enough to block off her room entirely, which Hazel had done, but she could still hear the occasional ruffling of a passing body, a flash of feathers visible through shifting cloth.

Lily doubted that, were she in Hazel's place, she would ever be able to feel comfortable here. It was just subtly unnerving, that there were no solid walls, that anyone could just walk in at any time. They  _didn't_ , of course — the silent request for privacy that were the sealed panels and drawn curtains was generally respected — but the fact remained they  _could_. But Hazel didn't seem to think twice about it, seemingly comfortable with how fragile any illusion of privacy here was, no matter what state of undress she happened to be in at the time. So...she guessed it didn't matter, then? It just struck her as weird, was all.

_I like it here, myself. People can get a bit noisy, but it's still way better than in Slytherin. Well, since Gabbie learned to be not quite so annoying, anyway._

Yes, she knew that. Hazel was quite obviously uncomfortable with enclosed spaces. She just meant, Lily would feel far too exposed. Sometimes, she almost felt embarrassed for Hazel, she couldn't really help herself.

_That's silly. You're silly._

And Hazel was a hypocrite.

_I think I'm personally reasonable, thank you._

Hazel dropped her shoes just inside, slung her bag off her shoulder and threw it against the side of her desk. Lily caught a quick flutter of thought slip through her head, considering what she should do for the rest of the evening. She couldn't help a brief flash of annoyance when Hazel settled on dropping in to see Léandre. However quickly she'd managed to bury it, it was intense enough Hazel noticed — but she just smirked a little, shaking her head to herself, and turned right back around again.

And almost ran into Gabbie just outside. Lily noticed, with more than a little "silly" vicarious embarrassment, that the girl wasn't wearing a single bloody thing — by how her hair seemed ever-so-slightly damp, clinging a little to her face and shoulders, she must have just come out of the baths. She started chattering to Hazel about something to do with Transfiguration class, seemingly without a care in the world. And Hazel stood there holding up her end of the conversation, with nothing more than a bit of impatience.

Of course, no matter how odd this sort of thing seemed to Lily, it was apparently perfectly normal for these people. As she'd thought before, she'd seen nothing to suggest they had the same desire for privacy humans did — there didn't seem to be any nudity taboo at all. She couldn't even say there was anything inherently sexual about it to them either, they didn't even blink. It was just...not a thing, to them, they hardly even seemed to notice.

Which was just... _weird_. Even after these months, it still made Lily uncomfortable, whenever Hazel was just casually talking to (or casually ignoring, this being Hazel) people wearing rather less clothing than they should be. She really wished Hazel would just...look away, a little, but she never did, as completely unphased as the others seemed to be. Worse than that, Hazel was just as comfortable doing it as they were. Far as Lily could tell, the  _only_  reason she'd closed off her room was to stop people from barging in and annoying her, she didn't care whether anyone...saw her. Luckily, her room happened to be right next to the baths — while she didn't think twice about going there and back without a stitch on she never wandered very far. Lily felt an odd sense of vicarious mortification, every damn time, she  _really_  wished Hazel would stop. But the ridiculous girl always reacted to Lily's embarrassment with confusion, couldn't even fathom why she should be uncomfortable at all, shading into annoyance now, as Lily inevitably brought the issue up again and again.

And that was also just so bloody strange. All right, fine, lilin and veela didn't have the same cultural sensitivity about nudity as humans did. That wasn't so hard to grasp — hell, different human cultures had different perspectives about that sort of thing to begin with, it wasn't  _that_  unusual. But, the problem with that?  _Hazel had been raised entirely human_. She  _should_ have internalised British attitudes about this sort of thing but, inexplicably, hadn't. Lily's mortification always came with shades of befuddlement, because she just didn't  _understand_  it. It was strange.

But, then, Hazel was rather strange, when it came down to it. One would think Lily would have just accepted this by now.

Eventually, Hazel managed to shake the gregarious veela girl, and continued on her way along the curving hall. On each floor there were...well, it was rather similar to the idea of a student warden, if not quite the same. Either Proficiency or Mastery students, on hand for, well, whatever the residents on their floor needed. (Lily wasn't entirely certain what exactly their responsibilities were, beyond the introduction/tour at the beginning of the year, since Hazel had never gone to them for anything.) The one on Hazel's floor was a seventeen-year-old veela boy named Léandre.

While Hazel had never actually had any legitimate reason she needed to talk to him, she had gone over to pester him now and again. (Which he was always graciously tolerant of, more amused with her than anything.) Rather more often the last couple months, in fact. It'd gotten to a point Lily was...well, concerned. No matter how much Hazel might deny it, usually with some comment about "necessary hormones" because she was ridiculous like that, Lily was increasingly convinced Hazel had something of a crush on him.

Hazel could call her silly all she liked, but when her twelve-year-old daughter had an obvious... _preoccupation_  with a seventeen-year-old boy, Lily felt she had every right to be concerned. It was a mum thing.

When they got around nearer to Léandre's room, Hazel slowed, her head cocking to the side a bit. Léandre almost always left his walls and curtains pulled aside, so anyone could drop in at any moment if they needed anything from him. But, the curtains on the outside were drawn closed. Hazel frowned to herself, hesitating for a moment.

Hazel, no. Just go back.

_I'm sure he won't mind_ , she thought, slinking closer to the curtains.  _If he's busy I'll go._

That hadn't really been the— Hazel, st—

Hazel poked a finger into a seam in the curtains, pushed a fold a bit to the side. And froze the instant she made out what was going on.  _Oh. Well, he's busy._

That was certainly a word for it. Léandre was there, of course, but he wasn't alone. Some girl, a veela, Lily didn't recognise her, by the look of her about Léandre's age. They were both naked, because of course they were, the girl laid out on the bed on her back, Léandre's head between her legs,  _because of course they were_. And Hazel hadn't moved, still standing there holding the curtains open a sliver. Watching them.

She should  _really_  be going now.

_In a minute_.

Hazel...

_It's fine. They don't know I'm here._

That... That  _really_  wasn't the point, Hazel.

But she could tell arguing wouldn't do much good, she wasn't really listening. She could feel it, how Hazel's mind had closed in, focus turning sharper with every second, with every second she didn't turn and walk away as Lily kept nudging her. Even removed as she was, she could feel Hazel's heart jump into her throat, mouth going dry, body warm and tingly. Even removed as she was, she could— No, she knew what was going on, more and more obvious as Hazel  _still_  hadn't moved, as she was  _still_  standing there watching, long enough they'd changed positions by now, Hazel jumped at the sharp noise drawn from the girl as, well, and she was  _still standing there_ , getting warmer and tinglier by the second, to the point she was almost shaking.

It didn't seem Hazel was quite conscious of what exactly was going on. Which Lily guessed made a sort of sense — she didn't think Hazel had ever been...er, aroused, before.

Jesus fucking Christ, this was actually happening.

As unbearably uncomfortable as this was, Lily couldn't just...leave Hazel here, spying on a couple having sex. She pulled at her, as though moving to take control — which she had no intention of doing, in fact, the thought of taking over when Hazel was in this particular state was, just, no. Hazel jerked at the touch of mind magic, shaking her head to herself.  _I guess I should probably go, huh._

That sounded far too uncertain. Hazel would go back to her room. Right. Now.

_Fine, fine._  With a last lingering look, Hazel turned and walked away, her pace oddly slow and drifting.

When Hazel finally did get to her room, unfortunately, she hadn't settled down at all. She'd seen too much, Léandre and the girl still playing behind her eyes. She flopped down onto her bed, heavy and boneless, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Head buzzing and heart pounding, and it wasn't slowing down at all.

_Seems rather nice, doesn't it._

What was she—

Before Lily could get a coherent thought out, the litany of images swirling in Hazel's head were changing. Clumsy, indistinct, not entirely conscious what she was doing even as she was doing it, Hazel was inserting herself into the...well, the fantasy, she guessed. In place of the girl, in place of Léandre, with both of them, bouncing around, brief flashes, always both vivid and yet indistinct, too ignorant in the way of such things to put together too coherent a picture.

But the sound far clearer, the girl's breathless voice echoing in Hazel's ears, over and over and over and over...

Even with this, Lily had perhaps never been so  _uncomfortable_  in her entire fucking life. But when she noticed Hazel's fingers trailing over her thigh, under the hem of her skirt, nope, that was it. She was done. She'd be back in a few hours.

_But, but I really don't know what I'm doing, you—_

Jesus Christ, Hazel, she could figure it out on her own! It's not that complicated! Lily was  _not_  sticking around for this, no way in hell.

For only the third time ever, Lily tore herself away from Hazel completely. It was rather jarring, like ripping off a plaster and missing a stair all at once — though, Hazel had said she hardly even noticed it happening, no different to her than when Lily simply blocked herself off. After the initial discomfort, though, it wasn't at all bad. She sunk into the gentle currents of the ambient magic threaded throughout the valley, soft and smooth and warm, like sinking into a bath, surrounded entirely with light and power and life.

And she floated there — though she had absolutely no grasp of where she was physically, if she was even in any particular spot — trying to come to terms with what had just happened.

It wasn't the bare facts of it that were bothering her quite this much. Hazel peeping in on people fucking was a problem, sure, sitting in on...what had come after had been unspeakably uncomfortable. But that wasn't the true problem, no. (In any case, she'd left behind all ability to actively feel embarrassed about it when she'd separated herself from Hazel — having no body of her own was weird like that.) No, it was what she'd realised even as she'd pulled away, that's what was really bothering her.

She was sharing the body of a lilin just hitting puberty. A  _lilin_. A lilin who happened to also be her daughter. Her daughter who, seemingly, had  _absolutely no problem at all_  with Lily being here. Where she would be all too aware of absolutely  _everything_.

This was going to be  _so_  fucking awkward. She just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [created with the soul of Ciardha Monroe] —  _In my fics where the diary is a more reasonable, rational person, Dumbledore accepted Monroe for the Defence post, and Tom made the diary with him instead of Myrtle. (Picked mostly out of self-defence, Monroe was too perceptive and was quickly making Tom's life difficult.) In my headcanon stuff about how horcruces work, the original personality isn't perfectly obliterated. The canon diary's histrionics are partially because some of Myrtle is still there. This diary instead absorbed some of Monroe, who was...well, basically the Lockhart of his time, but far more Dark and serious (and, yes, competent, but then so is Lockhart in this timeline), before settling down because he was getting old and had taken a few too many curses. So, I guess, think of the diary as a weird fusion of teenage Tom Riddle, Gilderoy Lockhart, and Alastor Moody, who now has to pretend to be a teenage girl because ritual oops._
> 
> la Colombiѐr —  _I believe this has been explained before? Eh. It used to be a thing, that people would keep pigeons (mostly for their eggs and meat, but carrier pigeons were also a thing). Homes often had...well, basically a little tower connected to them where the pigeons could nest, dotted with little holes letting them fly in and out. The English word for this is a dovecote; colombiѐr is the same thing in Occitan. The people at Beauxbatons use the word (colloquially, it's not the proper name) for the lilin/veela dorms, because they think they're funny._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _I managed to put a fight with a basilisk and a sexual awakening in the same chapter. With the unnecessary worldbuilding rambles and the serious departures from the canon plot, we're only an unsubtle jab at the fandom and/or the original author away from someone somewhere winning inwardtransience bingo._
> 
> _Next chapter is already planned. Should be relatively brief, which means I **should**  theoretically have it done sooner, but it's also rather awkward — which is a funny thing to say after that last scene here — and my work schedule is bluh this week. Knowing me, it could be anywhere from four or five days to a month._
> 
> _My output is so inconsistent these days. Believe me, nobody is more annoyed about it than I am._
> 
> _~Wings_


	15. Awkard

When she glanced up to see Carina drifting into the solarium, Narcissa didn't quite manage to completely suppress her surprise.

Not that seeing Carina these days was at all unusual — she rarely left the manor, most of the time holed up in the library. Supposedly, she was catching herself up. She was rather behind on recent history, and by the titles of the books Narcissa sometimes found sitting out she was taking the opportunity to fill in other gaps in her knowledge while she was at it.

This behaviour was, in itself, not a surprise. House Malfoy had managed to put together an impressive private library over the centuries, and the Dark Lord himself had spent not inconsiderable hours perusing it. Narcissa had first spoken to him there, in fact, meeting by chance when she'd been, oh, probably sixteen or so, shortly after her betrothal. She hadn't even known he'd been in the building at the time. It was one of the oddest encounters she'd ever personally experienced, rather mortifying in retrospect — she'd nearly blacked out from fright, he'd levitated her to a nearby sofa where she'd stayed until the episode passed, humiliating.

Anyway, no, seeing Carina around the house had ceased feeling novel. At first it had been, well,  _unsettling_  was the word she supposed, looking at her and knowing who she was. But Narcissa had gradually gotten used to it, after these couple months it was just normal now.

She supposed the lessons she'd been giving, etiquette and such, were rather a help in that, though not quite in a way she'd anticipated. Because Carina  _did_  remind her of a particular person not infrequently, though that person was not the Dark Lord. Which she supposed wasn't  _that_  unusual — she'd known the Dark Lord when he'd been much older than Carina was (sort of, depending on how one looked at it), and while they were certainly similar, they were not the same person.

In fact, on reflection, Narcissa found the idea of Carina as the Dark Lord's daughter more believable than what she knew to be the truth. The Dark Lord had been...well,  _the Dark Lord_  — so powerful her bones ached just standing in his presence, every word and every motion pure diluted confidence cut with less-than-subtle intimidation, smooth and impeccably-articulate voice easily switching from silky seduction to tempestuous fury, eyes so cold they burned. While Carina was...

Well, she was just different, was all. Powerful certainly — the way she threw wandless magic around without thinking, she would have to be — possessed of the same unceasingly calculating intelligence. And while she was certainly unwaveringly confident, she didn't have the same aura about it, less self-possessed and more confrontational. (To put it less briefly and more informally, sort of as though she were saying,  _Yes, that is what I am saying and/or doing, are we going to have a problem?_  with every word and every twitch.) She did have a subtle sense of danger about her, something deep in the back of Narcissa's mind warning her she was in the presence of something dark and deadly, but it was more...unfocused, the feel of it different, less sheathed dagger and more barely-contained wildfire. And, perhaps most peculiarly, she  _actually emoted_. Minimally, of course, but that any honest emotion ever showed itself on her face or voice at all was unexpected.

It was in certain instances of that when she reminded Narcissa of Bella the most — because it was Bella Carina reminded her of far too often, of course. Nothing more than the... Well, it felt a bit scandalous just thinking of it, but there was no other word for it. Sometimes, when Carina needed to be wearing a particular thing for one reason or another, or when Narcissa was giving some instruction in their little lessons Carina felt was especially asinine, she would  _pout_  back at her. Always briefly, mild and quick enough she clearly wasn't intending to call attention to it, but it  _did_  happen. Even after seeing it so many times, Narcissa still wasn't sure if Carina was doing that consciously or not. It just seemed so...childish, she guessed, out of character. It still took her aback, every time.

It really didn't help how powerfully she was struck with memories of a teenage Bella every damn time. Which was odd, because they didn't look  _that_  similar. Not  _dissimilar_ , of course — Carina had used Bella's blood to recreate herself, some likeness was expected. And really, it wasn't even that she was confusing Carina for her sister. She never did manage to forget who she was talking to, not quite that thoroughly lost in her memories. If anything it was, well, how Narcissa expected she might react to such things if Bella had actually had a proper child. As though this really were her niece. Complete with occasional...feelings, was the word, she did absolutely everything in her power to keep to herself, she doubted Carina would take that well.

Which she guessed wasn't  _entirely_  unexpected. From a certain point of view, Carina technically  _was_  her niece — she had used Bella's blood to recreate herself, after all. And, well, if it was all too easy even for  _her_ , who knew the truth perfectly well, to even subconsciously believe Carina was who she claimed to be, then that was really quite convenient, wasn't it?

Carina would have to fool the whole bloody country, after all. Even whispers of the truth could prove disastrous for what they were planning.

But anyway, no, seeing Carina at all wasn't itself unusual. Carina had even tracked her down in the solarium before. No, what was odd, what had Narcissa straightening in her chair, eyes widening in shock, was the state Carina happened to be in at the moment. Her wavy black hair had descended into a tangled mess, face strained, eyes looking oddly bloodshot, ringed with sunken shadows. It rather looked like she hadn't slept properly for weeks.

Which, well, that wasn't  _entirely_  a surprise either, if Narcissa were being completely honest with herself. It hadn't yet been quite this obvious, but this wasn't the first sign Carina was having problems of some kind. It'd come on gradually. She'd never drawn attention to it, and Narcissa had, of course, never commented. It had never quite seemed her place. But, by the look of her, Carina hadn't yet managed to solve whatever it was on her own. If she was coming to Narcissa about it, that meant she was probably at the end of her rope.

This was going to be...tense. She'd learned by now Carina didn't exactly react well to even mild embarrassment.

Lingering just inside the door, arms crossed over her chest, Carina said, 'You mind if I ask you something, Narcissa?' By the brittle, stilted tone of her voice, Narcissa knew she was holding back quite a bit of awkward discomfort. Though, that would have been obvious enough without her opening her mouth — the way she stood there, not quite meeting her eyes, arms crossed and pulled into herself a little, was uncharacteristically defensive.

Trying to keep her face as blank as possible, Narcissa nodded. 'Of course.' She gestured to the chair across from her with her eyes, set her book aside.

Carina hesitated for another short moment before jerking into motion, making for the empty chair. As she sat she called for Dobby, asked him for some tea, 'if you would.' Narcissa had been somewhat surprised that Carina was never anything less than decent with Dobby, even as she realised she shouldn't be — the Dark Lord himself had been much the same, after all.

It was something of a relief, of course. Dobby had originally been a Black elf, had been around as long as Narcissa could remember, had come with her to House Malfoy as part of her marriage arrangements. Every time she saw the poor thing, she wished she could do something about how Lucius treated him but, well, he was as much Narcissa's Lord as Dobby's. Whenever she brought it up, he just said something about how he couldn't imagine why she should care at all, didn't change his behaviour in the slightest.

She couldn't deny Lucius had been an advantageous match, for a long litany of reasons. But, sometimes, she really did dislike him.

It took only a few seconds before Dobby was popping back, setting a laden tray on the side table between them, popping out again. Carina had a cup fixed soon after, held it steaming before her lips. Gathering herself, by the look of it, trying to decide how to say what was on her mind. After a few long, silent minutes, she finally spoke. 'It is an uncomfortable topic.'

Narcissa barely stopped herself from raising a single sardonic eyebrow — Severus had clearly been a  _terrible_  influence. 'I had the feeling it might be.'

'How do you make it stop?'

She blinked. 'Make what stop?'

'I've just...' Carina's fingers clenched about her cup, enough her knuckles were whitening, enough Narcissa was worried she might break the thing. 'I've been having... _feelings_. And I don't know how to make them stop.'

'I hope you don't mean to suggest women are inherently more emotional than men.' She nearly flinched at the sharpness on her own voice — this was a time for delicacy, she should be more careful than that.

'No, that's not it at all. I am a legilimens, you know. The natural variation person to person is more pronounced than any reliable difference between the sexes.' One hand separated from her tea, coming up to rub wearily at her eyes. Sounding almost painfully uncomfortable, the words seemingly dragged through her teeth, Carina said, 'How familiar are you with neuroplasticity and attachment theory?'

That sounded strangely like a change of topic, but Carina did have a tendency to talk around a point before explicitly laying it out. The only thing to do was humour her. 'Not at all, I'm afraid.'

'Not so surprising — they are muggle ideas. Oh well.' Letting out a sigh through her nose, Carina leaned back in her chair. Cup cradled in her lap, eyes tipped to the ceiling, she started off in a low monotone. 'The brain is, as I'm sure you're aware, made of millions of individual cells, strung together in a vast network through billions and billions of individual connections. Each use of one of these connections strengthens it. Over time, some connections will be prioritised, while others will wither away. While this process continues through a person's life, it happens most quickly in early childhood — the way a person's brain is structured by, say, age ten or so is not set in stone, but is still extraordinarily difficult to overcome later in life.

'Attachment theory is, to boil it down to the very essentials, the idea that people require close interaction with a receptive caregiver in infancy to promote ideal psychological development. In the absence of a properly nurturing environment, be it through neglect or abuse, the infant brain does not prioritise the connections necessary to develop healthy interpersonal relationships or the prosocial emotional expression and dependencies behind them. Since the brain changes so much more quickly in childhood, neglect or abuse very early in life often has enduring psychological consequences which, while sometimes manageable, cannot ever be entirely reversed.'

She tried not to frown to herself, and mostly succeeded. Narcissa had a very strange feeling about where this was going. 'I believe I understand.'

'Not entirely yet, you don't. See, the ritual I used creates a new body from scratch, one that is, for all intents and purposes, physiologically normal. While who and what I am is, of course, largely determined by my own identity and the memories I brought with me, biology is, of course, going to have some effect. Biology that includes a brain that is, for all intents and purposes, structurally normal.' Carina turned to face her again, the hot intensity in her reddened eyes nearly making Narcissa wince. 'I have become all but certain that, in embodying myself, and entirely by accident, I managed to cure my own sociopathy.

'I am  _feeling things_ , Narcissa, and some of it is  _very_  unpleasant. And I can't make it  _stop_. Because I've never had to before, so I  _never learned how_.'

Yes. that was exactly the suspicion she'd been having. The problem was, she had absolutely no idea how to go about the rest of this conversation. She pondered for a moment, pouring herself a cup of tea from the pot Dobby had brought, then pondered a little longer, giving a moment for Carina to collect herself again. It seemed to be mostly frustration, the sort of frustration that builds and builds and builds until a body is entirely filled with it, so intense one feels like to burst from the force. Narcissa had experience with the feeling herself, most particularly during those weeks immediately after the Dark Lord fell, scrambling to keep Lucius and herself out of Azkaban. (Lucius more than herself, since she'd participated only from the sidelines and had never even been Marked, but she'd still been guilty of sedition if nothing else.)

Though it did seem a bit...odd, Carina would be so deeply affected she'd been visibly on the edge of tears. Must still be thinking of the Dark Lord too much. But it didn't seem like a good idea to draw attention to that, so Narcissa repressed the urge to attempt to comfort her, pretended not to notice.

Once Narcissa had gathered her thoughts, and Carina had ceased glaring unblinkingly at her own teacup, as though considering which curse would best obliterate it from existence before deciding to let it off with a warning this time, she finally spoke. 'I'm afraid it is not so simple, Carina. There is no way to, as you put it,  _make it stop_. There are potions and charms to blunt such things, I suppose, but that accomplishes nothing but a temporary reprieve — in fact, managing such things tends to become more difficult the longer one puts it off. With experience, one can learn to control one's emotions. The feelings themselves do not go away, but it is possible to control how they are expressed, to guard oneself from being overwhelmed, to keep them from the surface where others might notice.

'I'm afraid the only thing that can be done is to wait them out. Everything fades with time. The process can be accelerated somewhat if there is some way to resolve the underlying issue, but that isn't always possible.' Probably not in Carina's case — she assumed whatever she was having problems with involved the memories she'd inherited from the Dark Lord, it was unlikely she'd be able to do anything about that. She supposed it was  _possible_  it could involve events during those decades she'd spent bound to that ratty old journal, but that seemed unlikely. From what she'd read regarding historical cases of horcruces being embodied — which, of course,  _had_  happened before — there was always some degree of emotional distance from the years they'd spent bound to an inanimate object. They could  _remember_  it, of course, it just never felt entirely real to them, the impact of the memories somehow less.

Carina didn't seem entirely pleased with all that. Her face had fallen somewhat, almost seemed to be sinking into her chair, as though exhausted bone-deep. 'There is nothing for it, then. Just...wait.'

She drew a breath through her teeth, hesitating. Somehow, she didn't think Carina would take the suggestion well. She could always...yes... 'Well, not necessarily. Some people benefit from talking it out with someone receptive—' Honestly, that was one of the very few reasons Narcissa tolerated Zabini's incessant meddling. The silly woman had gotten it into her head that it was her responsibility to pick up the role of elder sister in Bella's absence, which was a little offensive and more than a little presumptuous, but she  _was_  quite literally the only person Narcissa could talk to openly with no fear of consequences. Even with Severus there were...complications. '—but not everyone finds that helpful. I'm afraid you just have to figure it out for yourself.'

Carina gave her a narrow-eyed, suspicious sort of look over her tea. She'd admit, that hadn't been the most subtle. It had been indirect enough for both of them to save face, but Carina had to realise what Narcissa was really saying. She wasn't that stupid. She kept staring at Narcissa for a long moment, before glancing down to glare at her tea again, clearly thinking over something.

So Narcissa just let her think — it  _definitely_  wouldn't be wise to push, after all. She even picked up her novel again, which she would never think to do in a similar situation with Draco, or Zabini, or practically anyone else. (Well, maybe Severus, he could be overly defensive sometimes.) With anyone else, she'd be worried it would give the impression she didn't really care, that she'd rather be doing anything else than listen to whatever it was they might have to say. With Carina, though, she would anticipate having the  _opposite_  problem: Narcissa doubted she would at all respond well if Narcissa seemed  _too_  interested, if that made sense. She had the feeling Carina would respond better if Narcissa, at least externally, seemed to have absolutely no personal investment at all. Which might seem counter-intuitive, but exceptionally private people could be like that.

It was really quite fortunate Narcissa had grown up surrounded by exceptionally private people. If she hadn't learned how to manage with them, she might have said something irreparably stupid at...well, any point in this conversation.

She'd gotten through a whole eight pages — at her leisurely pace, a good handful of minutes — when the silence was finally broken. 'I trust it goes without saying that I expect you not to go blabbing about anything I tell you in confidence.'

Narcissa glanced up over the top of her book to find Carina still staring at her refilled teacup. Her face was mostly blank, just the slightest impression of an uncomfortable grimace. Narcissa marked her page again, folded her book closed in her lap. 'I realise you haven't personal experience with this sort of thing, but that  _does_  go without saying. If I were to do something like that, I would be quite a terrible aunt, wouldn't I?'

Somewhat to her surprise, Carina's lips twitched with a half-hidden smile, just for an instant before vanishing again.

* * *

While Hazel was distracted considering exactly how she was going to get to all of her Tuesday exams on time, she was abruptly torn away from herself, Mum taking over without any warning. Before she could even blink her surroundings were wiped away, shortly replaced with the facade of a building Hazel recognised as the central offices. And they were walking inside, Mum's thoughts closed to her, that part of her mind cold and focused and determined.

Okay. What the hell was going on?

_It's obvious I'm not going to be able to convince you to take care of it yourself. So I'll just have to do it._

Do what?

_Hazel, you_ _ **really**_   _can't expect me to do nothing about something like this._

Something like wh— Oh, Mum was still all worked up about the Léandre thing wasn't she.

_You say that like me being "all worked up" about it isn't perfectly reasonable._

If Hazel had had control of her lungs, she would be letting out an exasperated huff about now. She still didn't get why Mum was being so ridiculous about this. It  _really_  wasn't that big of a deal. She reached out, trying to draw herself back forward before Mum did something silly, but she never really had gotten the hang of it like Mum had.

_Oh, yes, silly. It would just be silly for me to do something about a seventeen-year-old boy—_  Mum's train of thought derailed, seeming nothing more than a distressed scramble, a television descending into salt-and-pepper static.  _Mum's prerogative, to do something when my daughter is being taken advantage of. Nothing unreasonable about it._

She could almost laugh at that.  _Taken advantage of?_   _Hazel_  had been the one who'd come on to  _him_. Really, she hadn't even been subtle about it. If anything, it was the other way around.

_It simply doesn't work like that, Hazel._

Yes, she'd gathered by now Mum thought that. Still didn't get why. What, just because he was older or something?

_That's part of it. It's not... If you won't talk to someone about it, I just have to make you. I'm sorry, Hazel, that's just the way it is._

Yeah, that was a lie — Mum wasn't sorry at all.

Powerless to snatch control back, Hazel watched as Mum strode down the halls, pace solid and heavy with determination, thinking to herself. She  _really_  didn't see what the big deal was. It had just been the one time, and it wasn't like Léandre had hurt her or anything. Well, okay, it had hurt a little bit, but not that badly, and not permanently. Thought it was rather nice, actually. Certainly not something for Mum to be getting all worked up over. Probably just one of those mum things.

While Hazel pondered the problem to herself, something finally clicked. She had an idea. Keeping her thoughts less to herself, practically shoving them over to Mum, all right,  _fine_ , she would talk to someone. If Mum could hand control back, please.

Mum petered to a halt in the middle of the hallway, thoughts dripping with suspicion. But, with a sigh, she surrendered, and slipped into the background again.  _You realise if you're lying I can just take over again. There's no avoiding this, Hazel._

Yes, yes, she knew that. She had a better idea than going to one of the counselors, though. Hazel turned around, making back for the stairs, going up another two floors. It took her a bit of searching the offices of the Proficiency history and culture professors before she found the one she was looking for. She knocked on the door with  _Ròderic Delacòssoge_  printed on it, settled back to wait.

She wasn't entirely surprised by the flash of irritation from Mum — she'd hidden the particulars of her idea for a reason.  _I have the feeling a lilin is unlikely to treat this sort of thing with the gravity it deserves._

She knew Mum had a tendency to forget this, but Hazel  _was_  a lilin. She would think a lilin's perspective was  _exactly_  what was appropriate.

_I don't forget it._  But Mum had nothing more to say than that, her thoughts holding the feel of grumbling to herself under her breath.

Hazel only had to wait a few seconds before the door was swinging open, and there was Ròri. A scrawny, spindly-limbed man stretching high over her head, like far too many adults, wearing his usual trousers and vest in blacks and reds, a trio of black-purple feathers braided into shaggy black hair tucked behind his ear, Ròri was the only lilin professor here Hazel knew about off-hand. When Hazel had first applied here, someone had apparently assumed her self-identification as a lilin in the paperwork had been in error, and had her entered into their files as a human instead — when Hazel had told the Proficiency student showing her around that, no really, she actually was a lilin, she'd called Ròri to come straighten it out. They'd really only met the one time, since Ròri taught nonhuman and modern muggle history courses for Proficiency students, but he was supposedly going to get back to her eventually when he found out which clan Mum had been born into. Since that was supposedly important.

He blinked in surprise at her for a second. Then, with a whole-body wince, he slapped himself in the forehead. 'Ah, shite, is it almost June already? Sorry, Hazel, slipped my mind. Come on in.'

Ròri's office was little different than Hazel would expect from any other professor — desk littered with papers and pens, walls lined with shelves packed with books, blah blah. The only half-unusual thing was the flag pinned to the wall next to a window, a complicated twisting gold thingie that she still didn't know what it was stitched into a deep purple backdrop. (The standard of the veela–lilin nation, she knew by now.) While Hazel dropped herself into a chair, Ròri went to one of the bookcases, started flipping through a few folders here. 'I knew I put it here somewhere, where was...'

Okay, it was obvious Ròri assumed she was here for something else. 'What are you talking about?'

He froze, turned to blink down at her again. 'I put together a little bit on  _Heroğšaćai_  for you. Wasn't that why you're here?'

'What the hell is that?'

Mum seemed to cringe a little at the way Hazel was talking to a professor, but Ròri didn't at all seem to care. If anything, at the moment he mostly seemed exasperated with himself. He finally pulled a folder from the shelf and started back for his desk, rubbing at the side of his head. 'I had this straightened out a couple months ago now. I meant to have a talk with you before the term ended, but I completely forgot.'

_Oh_ , oh, he was talking about lilin clan stuff. Right. 'So, you think you found the right one?'

'I think so.' Ròri planted his bum on the corner of his desk nearest her, dropped the folder down in front of her. 'I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure. It's usually considered, well, insensitive to quite so directly ask if anyone's had any  _Zicanći_. I mean, imagine going around asking humans,  _Hey, you happen to have a cousin who had a miscarriage around, oh, early in Nineteen Sixty?_  Yeah, that conversation never goes over well.

'I actually only learned they had a  _Zicanći_  around the right time through another Egyptian clan,' Ròri said, shrugging to himself. 'I didn't ask them about it at all, always too uncomfortable, people clam up. I did bring up recent events in Britain, though, and one of the younger women reacted  _just_  noticeably to your mother's name, and given what a couple friends of the family said, it seems very likely.'

'Oh.' Hazel stared down at the yet closed folder, not entirely sure how to feel about this development. If he was to be believed, Ròri had managed to track down their biological family. Which was...a weird thought. By the feel of it, Mum had no more idea how to feel about it than she did. One thing though, 'Wait, they're Egyptian?'

'Ah, yes. I suspected from the beginning they might be, actually. You look like an Egyptian lilin,' Ròri said, giving her a sort of indistinct wave with one hand, 'with the hair and eyes and all. Granted, there are people in other clans who got them at some point, but it's almost universal in certain clans in Egypt.'

'But...how did Mum end up in Britain, then?'

'Oh, that's not unusual at all. People tend to send their  _Zicanći_  as far away as possible. Less tempting that way, you see, if they're not nearby.'

Hmm. Well...okay, then? That was a thing she knew now, she guessed. She tipped the cover of the folder up, flipped through the few pages inside, mostly basic information about the clan, where exactly in Egypt they could be found. She should...probably do that at some point, then. Eventually.

_Soon, ideally. Lilin have their own magic, and that I can't teach you. I suppose the Zabinis could, theoretically, but I suspect they'll just try to pass you on to blood relatives anyway. Cultural reasons, and all that._

Mum thought it easily enough, but Hazel could tell the thought made her massively uncomfortable.

_I just don't know how to feel about it, Hazel. I'd never really expected to ever learn anything about my birth parents, and I didn't really care to either. Not to mention I'd been under the impression they were, you know, human. Don't worry about me, I'll get over it._

No, Hazel wasn't  _worrying_  about her, exactly, just observing. Really, Hazel didn't feel any less uncomfortable about it herself. Somehow, she just knew all this was going to be... _awkward_. Hazel didn't like awkward.

Mum didn't say anything to that, but she could feel the twittering of amusement from her place in Hazel's head.  _Anyway, we had a reason to be here before Ròri distracted us._

'Oh, right.' Hazel let the folder fall closed, turned up to meet Ròri's eyes again. 'Thanks for looking into that for me and all, but that's not why I came.'

Ròri blinked at her, then winced again. 'Right, sorry, got away from myself again. What was it you needed from me, then?'

_You know, I really have to wonder what a class taught by him is like. He seems a bit unfocused for it._

He seemed worse than usual — not that she'd really seen  _that_  much of him before — but it  _was_  exam season. Hazel would expect that to be as much of a scramble for professors as it was for students. But whatever, not important. Hazel considered how she should go about asking what she needed to to make her point for a moment, but then just shrugged. Fuck it. 'I was wondering, what age would be normal for a lilin to start having sex?'

'Oh, well...' Ròri shrugged back, waving a hand in a limp, vague sort of way. 'I can't really say there's a "normal" age. I can say people might think it a bit odd if it were a child younger than...oh, eight, we'll say, and you'll virtually never hear of anyone who meets the sky older than thirteen.'

Hazel frowned. ' _Meet the sky?_  What the hell does  _that_  mean?'

Fidgeting just a little, Ròri said, 'I daresay you'll find out soon. Ask the  _Heroğšaćai_ , it's not my place. But anyway, it isn't unheard of for someone who has never had any sort of sexual experience at all to meet the sky — it's  _unusual_ , sure, but it happens. It doesn't always happen at the same age. Twelve or thirteen, most commonly, sometimes earlier. Fourteen, maybe, but no later than that, not unless they have some serious health problem. And, well, after meeting the sky, we  _need_  to. At least among lilin, there is no such thing as a fourteen-year-old virgin. They simply don't exist.'

Trying not to look too externally smug — that would probably be rather confusing for Ròri — Hazel leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. See what she meant? It was  _perfectly normal_  for lilin, as she'd expected it would be. And she  _was_  a lilin, remember. No reason to be being all silly over it.

_Hazel, that's_ _ **really**_   _not the—_

She didn't have to wait for Mum to get the whole thought out to know what other point she was about to bring up. But Hazel had a different question she wanted to get out before she got distracted. 'What do you mean, we  _need_  to?'

'Ah...' Ròri winced again, glancing away for the first time this conversation. 'Well, that's really not my place to explain either. Suffice to say, there is a reason we haven't isolated ourselves from human mages as they have from the muggles. The  _Heroğšaćai_  will explain everything, I'll just leave it at that.'

That was unhelpful, but fine. She might as well get to the point and ask the other question before Mum started making her head hurt. 'Right, okay, so. What about age differences, then?'

Ròri blinked. 'Age differences?'

'Yeah. Say, for an example, a twelve-year-old lilin were shagging a seventeen-year-old veela. What that be a problem at all?'

An odd little smirk pulled at Ròri's lips. 'Ah, I see. This is about what happened between you and Léandre. The Tonkses giving you trouble over it?'

'You know abou—' Hazel broke off, her mouth hanging open in mid-syllable. Actually, she just remembered she hadn't mentioned it in her last letter to Andi. It just hadn't seemed...she didn't know, important enough. Sitting here thinking about it,  _that_  might be why Mum had been worried enough to force her to do something about it, thinking she was hiding it for... _some_  reason...

_You mean you weren't trying to hide it from her?_

Why would she?

_If she knew about it, she might try to interfere with your..._

...with her what?

_With you and Léandre, I mean._

It took her a moment to realise Mum was attempting and failing to think of Hazel and Léandre with the word "relationship" in any way involved. Mum could really be quite silly sometimes. But, anyway, what was there for Andi to interfere in, really?

_I should think that would be obvious._

Er, no? Honestly, there was no reason for Mum to be so silly about using that oh-so-scary word. It wasn't like Hazel was  _in lurve_  with Léandre or anything. She'd been curious, so she'd shagged him. She wasn't curious anymore.

_You're not... So, that's it, then. You're not going to sleep with him again._

No. Or, maybe — it had been rather nice, after all. But, now that the mystery had been removed from the equation, if that made sense, she just didn't find him that interesting anymore. When she wanted to again — she had no doubt she  _would_  want to again in the relatively imminent future — if he happened to be particularly convenient at the time she might shag him again, but she'd rather find someone who was still interesting.

There was silence from Mum for a few seconds, her thoughts a jumbled mess so discordant Hazel's arms itched.  _Do you... Do you even_ _ **like**_   _him?_

Hazel shrugged. Honestly, not really. He was just too... Well, he was just kinda boring, wasn't he? Very pretty, yes, and he  _did_  know what he was doing so far as the sex thing was concerned, but otherwise boring.

_But you were following him around pestering him for_ _**months** _ _!_

She hadn't  _followed him around_. Pestered him a bit sure, but that didn't mean she  _liked_  him. See, he was very,  _very_  pretty.

The scream of frustration reverberating through her skull was so powerful she wondered if even Ròri heard it.

Not that he seemed to. Ròri had been talking through all of that — though he hadn't gone very far, odd things seemed to happen to time when Hazel was focusing on Mum. She'd been keeping half an ear open, so she thought she'd caught most of it. Something about their people not getting that worked up about these things, so long as no one was being hurt it wasn't a big deal. Léandre had told a few people among the staff about it, particularly Ròri, because he knew Hazel had been raised by humans, and had been slightly concerned her family would make a fuss. '—might be concerned isn't entirely unexpected,' he was saying, 'and if you wanted someone to talk to them for you—'

She shook her head. 'No, that's fine. I hadn't told them at all yet, actually. I was just, er, curious. I don't really know about lilin things, you see.'

'Ah.' Ròri nodded to himself, looking rather uncomfortable. She'd learned by now that her ignorance of her own people was something lilin and veela considered a minor tragedy, which was somewhat awkward, she tried to ignore it. (She still thought whether they  _were_  her people or not was arguable at best, but not the point.) At least they never lingered on the thought too long, Ròri shaking it off and moving on after only a brief moment. 'Well, no, it's generally not something we care about, that sort of thing. You will want to be mindful of it, though.'

She blinked. 'Huh?'

'It's not something  _we_  care about, but sexual mores are something that sharply vary culture to culture. Since we lilin tend to range about much of the magical world, it is something we need to be aware of. With human partners, you'll want to be mindful of any significant age difference, especially while you're still so young. They can be a bit...sensitive. About that sort of thing.'

Despite knowing it would only annoy Mum more, Hazel rolled her eyes. 'Yeah. I'd gotten that impression.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delacòssoge —  _Taken from Fleur's surname in canon, veela/lilin often, but not always, use "surnames" among humans that mean literally "of-the-[clanname]". Ròri's clan in their own language would be called Cošuğ (IPA:_ /co.ʃuɰ/ ; /ko.ʂuɣ/ _, roughly "coh-shoog", only slightly different from the -còssoge part). "Ròderic/Ròri" is pronounced how it looks. (An "o" without that accent is pronounced "oo" in Occitan, so.)_
> 
> Heroğšaćai —  _Lilin clan-name, pronounced something like "hair-rouge-shah-chai" (IPA:_ /he.ɾʌɰ.ʃa.çaɪ̯/ ; /χe roɣ ʂa c͡çaɪ̯/ _)._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _That took longer than I'd anticipated. There was an insomnia episode that lasted for nearly a week slowing me down, that doesn't help. But then I also got distracted by a collaborative project[LeighaGreene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/profile) and I have started up. So look forward to that being a thing, I guess. (It might be a little while — probably a good idea to get a few chapters ahead before we start posting. Probably not too long though, we'll see.)_
> 
> _For the record, Carina having accidentally cured her sociopathy does_ **_not_ ** _mean she is a nice, sparkling, lover of puppies and little children now. Morality doesn't work like that. She's still Dark as all get out, and you can bet she won't even blink at killing people if she feels she has to._
> 
> _Also for the record, **Hazel is not human**. I realise this hardly ever comes up in a way that actually matters, but it is a thing. While veela/lilin are technically just magically-altered humans — or, at least, are descended from magically-altered humans — that doesn't mean there aren't differences. Put very briefly, there are physiological differences, particularly where the endocrine system and certain brain structures are concerned, which leads to them having different emotional needs and different priorities in personal relationships. Hazel's thoughts about her first sexual experience, and the person she had it with, might seem very odd by human standards, especially given her age. But that is to be expected, because  **she is not human**. She is a bit fucked up even by lilin standards, which doesn't help either, but not the point._
> 
> _Just thought I'd get out in front of reviewers on those two topics. Don't mind me._
> 
> _Until next time,  
>  ~Wings_


	16. So, this happened again

Yeah, you've probably known this was coming for a while.

This fic died for, when it comes down to it, very similar reasons to my last two. I'm tired enough from work I don't have much mental energy to write as much as I would like, and I don't like this story enough anymore to keep working on it. To be completely honest, I think I'm just done with Harry Potter fanfiction in general. I've spent a few years on it, both reading and writing, and it's gotten old enough to me I can hardly work up the enthusiasm to read it anymore. I /really/ need to do something else.

The exception is a fic I'm co-authoring with LeighaGreene. It's posted here, called  _All According to Plan_. It's stalled at the moment, since we've both been too brain dead and writer's block-y to write much, but we'll probably get back to it.

I've been toying with a couple ASOIAF fics that might see the light of day before too long. We'll see. I've also been putting far more attention into worldbuilding for my original works recently, to (hopefully) progress to serious writing in the very near future. If anyone actually gives a shit — which I don't much expect, honestly — I might put up something on tumblr at some point to make updates and answer questions.

So, yeah, sorry about leaving a fic unfinished again. I just don't want to do this anymore.

Thanks for putting up with my bullshit,  
~Wings


End file.
